Brick
by JackOwens1860
Summary: This is my take on a fluff piece between Jason and Bruce in a similar vein to my other fluff story Comfort…except this is Jason and he is always borderline feral in my stories if injured. Hugs are kept to an absolute minimum, which in a fourteen-year-old street kid's mind lies between none and zero, but there is time for bonding of a sort. If it's good, it'll run longer. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is my take on a fluff piece between Jason and Bruce in a similar vein to my other fluff story Comfort…except this is Jason and he is always borderline feral in my stories if injured. Hugs are kept to an absolute minimum, which in a fourteen-year-old street kid's mind lies between none and zero, but there is time for bonding of a sort. Scheduled to run between three and four chapters, dependant on reviews for this chapter. If not well-received, this will become a one-shot. Plot line…Jason and Bruce doing their usual thing on Gotham's street when the tone of their hectic patrol takes an unexpected turn.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Brick**

Jason and I are currently engaged in a twenty-man brawl on the outskirts of Park Row. Tensions that have simmered between rival street gangs all summer are now boiling over explosively. Molotov cocktails are being thrown at tenement buildings whilst gang members wage war with whatever implements are to hand, including discarded bottles, fly-tipped furniture and even loose stonework from the buildings themselves. The GCPD are on route to our location having dealt with a similar scenario seven blocks over, but are still five minutes out. Although we are managing to contain the situation, wayward projectiles pose a constant threat to our safety and terrified bystanders. After dispatching another assailant following a successful counter, I turn to see my fourteen-year-old partner struck on the back of the head by viciously thrown house brick with an audible thud. He crumples to the pavement immediately and lies prone for several seconds before I can reach him. I am about to call for medical assistance when the impossible happens.

Jason rises back to his feet even as blood pours from the back of his head. He turns away from me towards the origin of the brick. Standing fifteen metres away is a lone assailant, barely seventeen years of age and sporting one gang's signature tattoos, who now looks very frightened. Resting at his feet is a small pile of collected stone debris, including another two house bricks. He is clearly acting as an artillery piece for this war. Before I can react, Jason has sprinted off in the older boy's direction. I mean to go after him but am involved in a four-on-one attack that hinders my efforts. It takes me a minute to put them down as a beer bottle skims past my left cheek by an inch. When my eyes relocate my wayward sidekick, I find him mounted atop of the older boy, striking his face repeatedly with bare hands. I combat and put down another three opponents in reaching his position and then a further two in prising him off the now badly-beaten target of his anger. He is phenomenally strong for his age: it takes me close to thirty seconds to properly dislodge him from the other boy's torso.

Jason is almost certainly concussed, perhaps badly, if his reaction of biting my arm is anything to go by. As I try to calm him down for a diagnosis, we are put upon by another six gang members who object to our timely intervention. The boy launches himself at one of our attackers, knocking them over with frightening ease and brutality, as I counter a haymaker from another. Jason's restraint has gone out the window as has his common sense: he snaps an arm before head-butting the same individual at a low enough angle to break their jaw with an audible crunch. As I again try to subdue the boy, two fire trucks streak onto the scene to put out the fires caused by the cocktails. Less than a minute later, four GCPD squad cars and a riot van also joined the chaotic scene. By this stage I have managed to force Jason onto his front against the ground and have a sedative ready to administer. I almost foolishly inject him before realising that unconsciousness with a head injury could kill him. I handcuff him instead as he thrashes beneath me.

Three minutes later, the GCPD have disabled the remaining offenders and all airborne projectiles have ceased reigning down hell from above. A paramedic has arrived and is examining the boy as I hold him still. He is still handcuffed and thrashing like a wild animal. I have never been met with a response like this from a concussion, which the paramedic has confirmed is the injury. Between us, we force-feed him anti-inflammatory medications to counteract possible swelling on his brain and treat the physical injury with antiseptic, stitches and a small quantity of ice. Twenty minutes following this treatment, he begins to calm down. The paramedic tells me he needs to inspect his eyes for haemorrhaging. This would involve removing his mask and exposing his identity. The man is genuinely concerned for his safety and is not out to make a quick buck by tabloid exploitation, but I cannot permit it. Instead I thank him for his help and take Jason to Leslie's clinic.

"What's your name?" Leslie asks the boy once he is seated and apparently lucid. His eyes mercifully show no signs of haemorrhaging according to her conclusions. He frowns in confusion at her.

"Huh?"

"What is your name?" She repeats.

"Jason."

"And who am I?"

"A bag lady?" I am unsure whether he is being facetious or not in his current condition. Her expression tells me she is too. "I really don't know. Sorry. Hey, where's that guy I live with?" He asks taking a cursory look around the room and missing my obvious presence completely. My cowl is down but he does not appear to recognise my face. I frown at Leslie.

"He's got some memory loss from the concussion. It should only be temporary." She informs me standing back up from her crouched position in front of him. "As near as I can tell without a CT scan or MRI, he's only got a hairline fracture on his skull so there's little chance of internal bleeding having occurred, something his eyes support." She goes to her desk and retrieves a small rubber ball before lightly throwing at him. Jason catches it in his non-dominant hand without difficulty. "His reflexes are also a good sign it's not as severe a trauma as it might have been. He has a remarkably hard head considering his skull bones are still suturing together." Jason is turning the ball over in his hand and squeezing it every few seconds.

"Nice ball, lady." He says attempting to get to his feet. I press down on his shoulder to keep him seated. Despite trusting her medical expertise with my life, I am less than confident of her diagnosis.

"Are you certain he does not require surgery? Could his brain be swollen?" I say only for her to frown. She does not like having her competency questioned, especially from me. Her withering glare tells me I should back down.

"He's just got temporary retrograde amnesia and is a little muddled as a consequence. How many people did he subdue after impact?" She responds. I am forced to count them for an accurate number.

"Five. Six if you include the boy who threw the brick. Four of them are in the hospital for six to eight weeks due to his actions."

"Does that sound like something someone with a swollen brain could do?"

"I suppose it is unlikely. Would he have been aware of what he was doing to those assailants?"

"From what you described, I doubt any thought beyond survival entered his mind."

"Leslie, he was completely feral."

"I'm not feral you asshole." Jason snaps at me. "And I can understand everything you two are saying about me. Don't talk like I'm not in the room. Fucking prick." The boy mutters his last two words almost casually before returning to his ball. I resist the urge to reprimand him for his language in present company when faced with the facts of his condition. I compose myself before speaking.

"What is the recommended treatment?"

"Bed rest, but you'll have to wake him up every two to three hours for the first day to make sure he hasn't slipped into a coma. Any prolonged loss of appetite, nausea or more serious memory impairment crops up, you bring him straight back here or take him to the hospital. The chances are remote, but it's still a possibility. You'll also have to stop him from conducting any strenuous physical exercise or activity for at least two weeks to make sure he doesn't trigger a bleed. His memory problems should start clearing after a few days and you should help him fill in the gaps until then. He may be emotionally confused, possibly violent if agitated, and should not be chided for it."

I look down at Jason and am met with an open stare of defiance. It looks even more intense than usual. "That may prove difficult."

I awake the next morning in a less than agreeable mood. Every time Alfred or I woke the boy to ensure his condition was not worsening, he tried to hit us. Three times he succeeded with his efforts, once dealing a painful blow to the old man's groin somewhere around four in the morning. Needless to say Alfred did not wish to participate afterwards, leaving me with the remaining four checks. I enter the boy's room around ten and find him in the familiar foetal position on the bed with all his bedsheets tangled inside the hollow of his body. This time I approach from behind him and carefully mount the bed. This time I will not be compelled to dodge fast hands and feet to check his condition. This time I will not be caught out. I reach out to touch his shoulder and gently rouse him to consciousness.

A moment later my face is being pushed into the mattress after being pinned with an arm bar bolstered by teenage bodyweight and perfect technique. I must admit using the sheet to temporarily blind me was very shrewd as was his decision to feign sleep until I was too close to negate his movement.

"Do you perverts never learn? No means no. You. Are. Not. Fucking. Me. Understand?" Jason tells me sharply as he did the previous three times I conducted my checks and the two times Alfred took those honours. If I wished, I could easily reverse this position, however such a counter would probably snap one or more of the boy's bones.

"Please apply common sense to the situation, Jason. Look around the room and think." I say calmly despite the pain currently surging up my arm and through my shoulder. Twenty seconds later, the tension is released as the boy decides better of his decision. He does not get off my back though.

"Why can't I remember your name? I know you but I can't remember your name."

"You have retrograde amnesia brought on by a significant concussion. That is why you are getting confused by things. My name is Bruce and I am your legal guardian."

"Since when?" Jason challenges. I sigh.

"Nearly two full years ago. Are you going to get off me now?"

"What are you going to do me when I do?"

"Let you go back to sleep again. You rarely get up before midday anymore."

"What time is it?"

"Quarter-past ten. Now, please would you be so kind?"

The boy shifts his bodyweight off me. I roll onto my side and face him. He sits cross-legged staring at me in suspicion. It is clear I am not fully believed. At this stage of his physical development I really wish he would wear night attire…or any sort of clothing at all when sleeping. After a minute of intense staring, Jason nods his head in apparent agreement with me. "Bruce sounds right. How many times have we had this conversation?"

"This is the fourth time."

"Then why don't I remember?"

"Medication and sleep tend to make it difficult to hold on to such information. You likely only remember our previous meetings this morning as half-heard dreams. Doctor Thompkins has assured me it will pass in a day or two." I tell him honestly. Jason regards the fresh bruises and half-clotted cuts peppering his body.

"What turned me into a retard?" He asks. I roll my eyes.

"You are not a retard, Jason. A brick caused your recent trauma. It will pass."

"Are you used to seeing me in my birthday suit by any chance?" He inquires without bothering to cover anything. He really has no modesty to speak of.

"Unfortunately yes. You despise pyjamas. I'm going to leave you to rest now." I say whilst shifting my weight to vacate the bed. He stops me by putting a hand on my forearm. His grip is much stronger than Dick's at the same age. His blue eyes offer me guilt in lieu of mistrust.

"I'm sorry I've messed you around so much, Bruce. I don't want to forget this happened again and attack you. Mind if I just stay awake this time? And you stay here for a while?"

"If you tell me your age, weight and height in less than twenty seconds, I will stay."

"Fourteen, one-forty and five-five." He replies immediately. I am impressed. I thumb to the set of drawers on the far side of the room.

"Put some pants on and I'll stay awhile then we can go downstairs and have breakfast."

We sit on the bed and watch some adult-cartoon show for an hour once Jason is sporting a pair of jogging pants. The boy rarely uses his flat screen television or bothers looking through his untouched stack of video games when he is fully fit. He deplores cable television almost as much as Alfred, but has a deep-seated love of cartoons. He prefers older efforts to new concepts and has once or twice spent an entire Sunday watching Tom and Jerry without ever leaving his bed. Despite his preference for those and other classic cartoon fare, such as Looney Tunes, he likes this American Dad programme we are currently watching. I find I like it too, if only because he is relaxed and comfortable in watching it and not lashing out. He even laughs in places, a rarity with him at the best of times.

Following this we head downstairs and enter the kitchen where the old man is plating up a late breakfast for our enjoyment. His posture suggests he is still feeling the effects of Jason's earlier kick but is able to offer the boy a reassuring smile.

"Good morning, Master Jason. How are you feeling, young man?"

"I'm so sorry I kicked you in the balls, Al. I don't remember doing it but you gotta know I'd never do it on purpose, honest." Jason apologises profusely having easily believed the incident as I described it to him earlier was fact. He needed furnishing with Alfred's name as well as his preferred moniker for him, but he almost sounds like himself. The old man winces slightly before patting him amicably on the back.

"I was a little testy about it earlier…" He says to garner a sly grin from Jason with his wordplay, "but I believe everything's now up to scratch." Even I crack a smile at his humour with the situation. The boy snorts.

"Oh, that's good, Al, that's really good. Seriously though, you okay? You don't need to go on the donor list or anything?"

"Even at my age, they are not beyond saving, Sir. I shall be fine in a day or two. Please sit down for breakfast." Evidently his concussion is not interfering with the boy's quick wit and their usual flow of banter. Through the course of breakfast however, it becomes increasingly clear that certain gaps in his memory are odd.

"Remember where you were born?"

"Nope."

"But you know what you do every night?"

"Yeah, I'm Robin. I kick ass."

"What was your father's name?"

"Asshole? I don't know."

"How many men did you sleep with on the streets?"

"Seven. That's an easy one. Ask me another."

"How did we meet?"

"Were you one of the seven? I don't know."

"What's your last name?"

Jason cannot palm this one off with a wisecrack. He frowns first in thought then bewilderment and finally anger. "What the fuck is wrong with my head?"

"It's fine. Your surname is…"

"Don't fucking tell me! I can get it! I know my own fucking name! I have to!" The boy snarls at me. A long silence follows as I await an inevitable tantrum. Three minutes later, Jason bangs both his fists hard on the table, yells several expletives and storms off towards the parlour. Alfred and I exchange glances of concern at this reaction. Stress and anger may trigger a bleed if he pushes himself too hard too soon. Concussions are always unpredictable, but this one's symptoms are being particularly cruel to him by gifting some information and shrouding others. No doubt he feels foolish when there is no reason to feel anything but thankful it is not more serious. We are both very aware of this. I consider my next approach carefully. A moment later, I believe I have a solution. I stand up.

"Where does he hide his cigarettes?"

I find Jason sat on the steps outside the front of the house, still topless and looking hurt but acting indifferent, five minutes later. I take a seat next to him but keep a sensible distance between us. I place a crumpled pack of Diamondback cigarettes in the space that separates us from one another. He takes them without looking and taps one out of the packet in the same manner. Once he has one clamped between his teeth, he vainly searches for a lighter. I produce one of my father's from my dressing gown pocket, the Zippo he used for his cigars, and hold it open for him. He leans over and lights his cancer stick with practiced ease then inhales deeply. I close the lighter and put it away as he lets out a sizeable plume of grey smoke. He nods in appreciation.

"I'm sorry I lost it back there. It just made me feel like a dumbass. Even a five-year-old knows their last name." He tells me taking another long drag. "How long have you known I started smoking again?"

"I know you never stopped to begin with: you merely cut down to one-a-day." I say only for him to disagreeably shake his head in exhaling.

"Not even that. I only have one when I'm really strung out, so maybe four a week at most." I incline my head at his correction. It is always nice when he volunteers information willingly.

"I stand corrected. Have you remembered your last name?" I ask as he reaches the middle stages of his cigarette. He sighs.

"No. What is it?"

"Todd. Jason Peter Todd." He smiles and nods at the view of the front drive.

"I knew that. I…I definitely knew that." He says more to himself than me. He sounds less than convinced. At this stage, it is remarkable he is so mobile and lucid. I venture to reach across the divide and rub his shoulder in the hopes he is receptive to physical reassurance this morning.

"You'll remember it all in time. Until then, no question is a stupid question. Okay?" I tell him. He takes another drag as I maintain contact with his shoulder. His flesh is cold to the touch. He exhales and finally gives me eye contact for my efforts. A moment later the boy offers a lop-sided grin that has lost none of its charm.

"So how did we meet, big guy? How'd we find ourselves here, at 'Brickgate'?" He asks to take me up on my offer. I smile at him.

"You stole the wheels off my car when you were twelve. We've been together ever since." Jason rolls his eyes and gives up a brief laugh at the image that has conjured in his head. He can see that scenario being true. He nods and stubs out his cigarette on the step below us.

"I'm wild, huh?"

"You are the wildest boy I have ever met. And even if I sometimes wish you were a little more…domesticated, I love you just as you are." I tell him honestly. There are no suspicious looks from him this time. He believes me immediately: I see it in his eyes.

"Congratulations on being the first, Bruce. I don't need all my marbles to know that's the truth. It's a big deal for me." He replies without any hint of tears or greater emotion threatening to surface. He is very tough outside and made of something stronger inside. That would be why a brick could not keep him down, why a concussion is no obstacle to meaningful conversation. He is simply too stubborn to admit defeat on any level. It will hopefully be an advantage and not a hindrance to his recovery. I squeeze his shoulder in appreciation.

"How about we go back inside and finish breakfast? Afterwards we can just go inside and watch cartoons all day."

"Yeah, I'm freezing my ass off out here." He says finally shrugging me off and getting to his feet. "Do I always walk around half-naked like this?" He asks as I shadow him through the door.

"Are you perhaps thinking it is impractical?"

"No, I'm thinking I must literally look too good to wear a shirt all the time. My body's crazy shredded." He answers without any sarcasm. Apparently even a concussed teenager is still a teenager. I am certain to some parents that might be a comfort. I sigh.

"Let's wait until we're back at the table for more questions, Jason."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Positive feedback means this is going to run for those provisional four chapters. Jason is not coping well with his concussion. Drastic measures are needed to restore order and balance to everyone's lives. Bruce plays the foil to the boy's outbursts and rages. A resolution and breakthrough are reached.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Brick 2**

I am roused by Alfred somewhere after six in the morning. I frown at him in confusion. It is the weekend and breakfast is not usually served until seven-thirty at the earliest. The old man is still in his dressing gown and looks very concerned. The boy. It has to be the boy. Something has set him off…again. I wordlessly get out of bed and follow him to a scene of devastation. There are mirror fragments all over the hallway and the floor of Jason's bedroom. Judging from the quantity of shards, I estimate the boy has broken five medium to large mirrors. Thankfully, there is no evidence of him having cut himself during what appears to be a full-scale episode as blood is absent.

Inside the boy's room, Jason is pacing backwards and forwards like a caged animal in a zoo. He is wearing grey shorts but nothing else and his irregular gait takes his feet dangerously close to the fragments. His eyes say he does not care if his feet are cut to shreds. They say he is not open to dialogue either and no doubt Alfred has already explored this avenue prior to seeking me out. I lean close to the old man's ear.

"How long?"

"Over an hour now, Sir. He began in the hallway and graduated to his room in less than ten minutes. I tried to stop him, but he is far too volatile to listen to reason."

"Fuck you! Volatile my ass!" Jason yells from across the divide the shards have created between us. "What the fuck have you bastards done to me? What the hell is this?" The boy says pointing to his hair. The old man and I exchange confused glances. His hair is the source of this violent display? His hair?

"What is wrong with your hair, Jason?" I inquire calmly. He spits on the floor and points an accusative finger.

"You. You did this, not the old guy! You fucking dyed my hair black when I was sleeping! You want me to be an emo for you? Is that your fantasy, to fuck an emo kid?" His tone suggests he has forgotten our names and is once again confused over where he is and why. Leslie said this was possible. He is lucid, just muddled over certain events. He dyed his own hair nearly two years ago, firstly to disguise his striking natural hue and secondly to closer replicate his ideal image of what Robin should look like as a symbol. Both these reasons were very prudent in my opinion and his initiative was encouraged. It appears this fact has slipped his mind. Telling the truth will likely cause more distress and certainly further screams of denial and my culpability. So I tell him what he wants to hear.

"It was not my intention to abuse you. I had merely read that dyeing a concussion patient's hair black might help offset some emotional problems. I am sorry I did not consult you and I apologise." It is complete nonsense, but the boy finally takes a long breath instead of continuing to pant as he has been thus far.

"You're an idiot…" He begins only to come unstuck searching for my name. He is in danger of losing his composure again if the answer is not forthcoming.

"Bru…"

"I know your fucking name, Bruce! I'm not a moron unlike you." He says after my prompt. He nods. "Of course I know your name is Bruce: you're the Batman. And I'm Robin. And that's…" He points at Alfred but again loses his tongue. He persists in pointing whilst screwing his eyes shut, presumably to concentrate. A minute of tense silence passes. "Al." Jason finally says opening his eyes. "Yeah, Al. Alfred if we're getting technical. So I'm not stupid."

"No. Of course you're not. I am the fool." I say to placate him further. He is remembering slowly. He nods in agreement with me and drops his arm back to his side. He has stopped pacing.

"Yeah, that's right. It's good you know that, Bruce. I want it back the way it was."

"Of course. We will reverse the process immediately if you carefully come to us and away from the mirror pieces." I tell him truthfully. Due to my need for intricate and believable disguises, we have several products that remove hair dye I have applied, provided the dye has had less than forty-eight hours to settle. I believe Jason touched up his roots almost a month ago. I will have to use a more concentrated formulae to bleed out the colour and hope it does not bleach it.

Jason appears ready for a peace offering and proceeds to lay his pillows across the floor to create a safe bridge between us. A moment later he has joined us in the hallway. He looks at us both in turn before settling his gaze on me. "You do it. Al had nothing to do with it so he can walk." I incline my head. The old man to my right pats Jason on the shoulder.

"Please feel better, Master Jason. I will serve breakfast at seven-thirty." Alfred leaves us a moment later after whispering in my ear that he will attend to the mess once we are elsewhere. I guide the boy to one of the opposite hallways many bathrooms. I find two bottles of the formulae under the sink as there is in every bathroom upstairs. He eyes me warily as I mix the two bottles with water in the basin. I instruct him to lean over the edge of the bathtub and am thankful when he does. The mixture is applied and then allowed to soak for fifteen minutes during which there is no conversation. Jason is tense, as am I. I pray this does not go wrong as we graduate to the rinsing stage. If done correctly, the dye will rinse out and leave his hair as it was when we met. If done incorrectly, the dye will rinse out and leave his hair grey, white or cause it to fall out. I pray for leniency before turning on the showerhead.

A minute passes before the dye shifts away from the follicles. I help speed its removal with my hand, combing his hair and the dye forward of his scalp. I am almost convinced I am in error when I see grey hairs appear. I fear this awkward convalescence is heading for a living nightmare for a further ten seconds. Then the grey falls away too. Strawberry blond hair peeks through the black soup and then spreads like wildfire. Five minutes later, wet strawberry blond hair is all that remains. The bathtub is stained black but Jason's hair is intact. I breathe a sigh of relief as I towel his hair dry, mindful of fresh stitches. As soon as the towel is removed, the boy is up and staring in the mirror. He sighs in obvious relief too.

"Jesus that was close. You almost ruined it." Jason informs me whilst roughly brushing his hair to a more tame style.

"Yes. I am very sorry, Jason. I hope you can forgive me." I reply from my seated position on the rim of the bathtub. The boy looks away from his reflection and joins me in sitting down.

"I'm sorry I snapped. I know you were trying to help. I'm just…I'm really touchy about my hair. I mean, its nice right?" He says inviting me to examine it for myself. I must admit it is rather striking when paired with his eyes. It has been a long time since I saw him like this. His natural hue makes him seem younger. I dare to run my hand through it. Soft and with the slightest of curls to the strands. He does not object. I nod.

"Yes it is."

He falls asleep against me during the following hour we are watching cartoons in my bedroom. He must be exhausted by it all and I do not wake him until it is almost ten. By this time, Alfred has not only cleared the shards but also cleaned the bathtub our dye experiment soiled with its success and informed me of these events whilst bringing me breakfast at eight. The old man returned just before I woke Jason to remove my plates and provide me with the boy's much needed full English. He did not stay for the show. Jason is groggy in waking and stares at me blankly for a few seconds.

"Bruce. Right. Cartoons. Guess I found something to read on the inside of my eyelids then?" He says pushing away from my shoulder and rubbing his face.

"You must have needed the sleep. Alfred's brought you breakfast. Here." I place the tray into his lap before offering up clean cutlery. He takes them with a slight nod of gratitude. I take this opportunity to replace our current DVD for the next. He eats in silence until he is ready for conversation.

"So I stole your wheels, right? That's how we met?" The boy has recalled some of our conversation from yesterday. That is positive. I press him.

"What do you remember about that night?"

"I don't know."

"Well, can you tell me if it was raining or not that night?"

"It…was raining. It was really bad. I was…freezing." Jason says after several long moments of deliberation. He is correct on all counts. It is promising. "I guessed your identity. You were Batman and I guessed who you were…correctly. Bruce…" He lapses back into silence. My last name escapes him. He looks over at me. "Help a guy out?"

"Wayne. Bruce Wayne."

"Right. Billionaire. Billionaire Bruce Wayne is the Batman. I guessed right first time, huh?" He says finishing off the last remnants of his breakfast. I am certain Leslie would be impressed with his progress. I pat him on the shoulder.

"You are very perceptive. And what's your last name?" I ask relieving him of the tray. He considers it for a few moments before answering confidently.

"Todd. It's Todd. Jason Peter Todd."

When Alfred enters to take the boy's dirty dishes as well, Jason has fallen asleep yet again. Both of us agree it is for the best. The old man will no doubt receive an apology for the mirrors sometime today, just not now. Jason has again slumped against me in such a way that if I were to move away he would fall on the bed and wake up. To that end, I manoeuvre a throw blanket over him whilst settling in for the foreseeable future. He burrows his head further into my side and proceeds to lock his fingers together on my far side as if he is holding a novelty teddy bear. Evidently whatever is left of his inner child has breached the walls. I am left with little recourse than to sit in the bed and ring down to Alfred for Wayne Enterprises' financial documents and study them here.

It is almost one in the afternoon. I have perused most of the documents in advance of a shareholders meeting tomorrow morning but the boy is still asleep and holding on to me. The DVD is still running further episodes, but I am growing tired of these cartoons now. I prefer novels of any length to television but would settle for the old Hollywood films my father and I enjoyed together. I put the papers to one side and look down at Jason. It is astonishing that this is as physically close to him as I have ever been in our history. In his current state, he almost appears a willing participant to this kind of affection. It is sad a concussion is required to trigger anything in him resembling a normal child's behaviour. I am aware at fourteen he is not going to want to cuddle me or receive the kind of treatment that Dick was so fond of, but when someone his age responds badly to a pat on the shoulder or supportive squeeze of the hand, you cannot feel a terrible disconnect.

Evidence of trauma is clear on both of us – we have many, many scars between us – but all mine were caused by the mission, by the training necessary to reach my goals and I am willing to accept them without gripe. Although a sizeable portion of his scars stem from the last two years as Robin, there are many that clearly do not. The current portion of his back that I can see bear horizontal lines that run across the centre of his spine to his armpit. Judging from the discolouration and visibility of these scars, I would guess a cane would be the implement to have caused them, if the marks were not so thin and odd in shape. I revise my theory and settle on a car aerial antenna. They are too fresh to be more than three years old and point to him being whipped with the implement until he bled and then further still. I tentatively run my fingers over them to examine the texture. They are slightly raised from the surrounding skin meaning a minimum of fifty to sixty hits. I find their presence monstrous. His arm too bears hallmarks of abuse.

There are two faded cigarette burns on his forearm, likely six or seven years old, which form perfect white circles on the skin. I would guess his father is the culprit. But all I may do is guess their origin. Jason has never drawn attention to any of them nor seems to be conscious of their existence most of the time. Sometimes on patrol when there is a lull, the boy will briefly glance at his forearms or rub his shoulder in a way that suggests the recall of past injuries but does not dwell on them. Asking him about his childhood or time on the city's streets yields the same answer: it was okay. He volunteers nothing else and the matter is dropped. He has told Alfred some things but the old man respects him too much to betray his trust and inform me, something I understand. Still, I wish he would open up, just a little on these issues. It would help us avoid complications or inadvertent pain on his behalf. I gently take hold of his fingers and prise them apart.

Even his fingers are not exempt from untold story-telling. A single faded line runs across all four of the fingers on his right hand, probably the result of a switchblade lashing out and defensive behaviour. They are also no more than three years old. My actions cause him to stir back to consciousness. A moment later he has reflexively pushed away from me and cast the blanket back to the floor. He blinks myopically before training his eyes on me.

"Was I a total fag with you just now?" He asks rubbing ingrained sleep from his eyes. Any intimate behaviour is construed as homosexual by Jason who cannot stand vulnerability. He must be independent at all costs. I shake my head.

"No. You were merely very tired. How do you feel?"

"Fine." He says sitting up and stretching his limbs skywards. "I need to say sorry to Al. Do you mind if I ditch you for a while?" Apparently he wants to view this morning as me needing his company as opposed to other way around. It is fine. I shake my head.

"Not at all. I'll come down with you." I say shifting my weight to get off the bed.

"No." The boy says sharply. I stop moving to await his explanation. "I have to do this myself. I want you to stay here."

"And will be coming back afterwards?" I inquire folding my arms. He looks undecided on the matter.

"Yeah, sure. I just don't want you to baby me all day." The boy says getting off the bed and leaving the room without looking back. I secretly believe he will not return because I think he is embarrassed by my lack of distance while he slept. Regardless I wait. First ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Just as I am about to exit the room, Jason appears in the doorway. He frowns at me. "I told you I was coming back."

"I thought perhaps you and Alfred were engaged in conversation. You do like to talk with him a lot." I say turning back to the bed. Light footsteps trace mine.

"He gave me some pills. I also got this for us to watch." I sit on the bed and am joined by him brandishing a DVD box a moment later. He has the Mark of Zorro with Tyrone Powers and Basil Rathbone. It was my father's favourite despite being released in 1940. I frown at the offering.

"Are you certain you want to watch this? I would assume you'd find it dry."

"Al says it's got sword fights in it and lots of death. He said you like it. That's good enough for me." The boy says clapping me on the shoulder, a gesture I am relieved by given how unpredictable he has been in the past two days. I incline my head whilst taking hold of the box.

"Is there any word on lunch yet?" I inquire standing up to put the disc into the player.

"Al says twenty minutes. How long have you been sat here now?" Jason replies slotting back into his reclined position against the headboard as I retake my place beside him. I have been with him almost constantly for the last seven hours. I shrug.

"It's not important. As long as you are getting better, I will stay as long as necessary."

"I don't need you to do that. I'll be fine." He tells me as the opening credits begin to roll on screen. I nod.

"I am certain you will be, but I would like to keep you company regardless." He nudges me with his shoulder in a friendly token of thanks. He smiles at me and I return the gesture. Later when he leans forward, I cannot help but steal a glance at the other side of his back. The marks do not run right across its breadth: they are all concentrated on the right-hand side. During the next ten minutes I find my attention repeatedly straying from the film to his back. It is a greater effort every time to return to Tyrone Powers Zorro. Eventually I am caught out by the boy.

"Do I have something on my back?" He asks in genuine curiosity. I shake my head.

"No, I apologise for staring."

"What are you so sweet on seeing? Is it a mole or something?"

"It is of a more…personal nature. But if you wish me to stop this line of conversation…"

"No. It kind of looks like you can't enjoy the movie until we talk about it. What are you looking at?"

"The striping on the right side of your back near the shoulder. Was it caused by a car aerial whip?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Who did that to you?"

"My third client in the motel opposite the Rainbow Alley strip club. He had a thing for horse-racing, wanted to whip me during his ride. At first I said no. Then he said he'd pay an extra twenty bucks for it. So I said yes. Afterwards the bed was like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I had to go to ER because it was still bleeding so bad a week later." I blink at this very detailed account of his past as one of Gotham's homeless. He has never offered anything on those fourteen months with so much substance. He is always vague or elusive. I try my luck with an even more unpleasant question.

"How many times did he whip you?"

"Maybe seventy times? The last fifteen I thought I'd drop dead right there from the pain." He tells me casually enough. There is no pain in his eyes when he tells me this, no threat of a breakdown or flight. He does not even have to think about an answer before speaking. I frown.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I remembered I dyed my hair in the first place. It was my idea, not yours. And I was a little bitch to you this morning. Plus, I may be a bit messed up on remembering some things, but I can't forget the seven times I sold myself so I could eat and sleep in a bed. Even a concussion hasn't dulled those details. It sounds awful, but I like that I remember those nights. It reminds me I earned my break in life." He says with a smile that is almost proud. I cannot sit here and do nothing in the face of such brutal revelations from one so guarded. That he is proud of not repressing such an emotionally and physically scarring encounter is heart-breaking. The things he keeps inside would tear an ordinary child apart, drive them to a hardcore drug habit or alcohol addiction. That his only real vice is smoking is a miracle. I must act on his goodwill before it sours. So I sit up and half-cradle him in my arms, hoping this is not a terrible mistake on my part.

"I am…very, very glad you came to this house. I am sorry your life has been so unpleasant, even if the sentiment is a little hollow now. I wish you to know I love you…"

"As I am. I know Bruce. We talked about this yesterday. I'm good. You don't have to hold me like this." Jason responds for me. His voice lacks any of the sentiment mine is attempting to suppress. I cannot believe he let me help him. I squeeze him softly. I ask something I have never done with the boy for fear of alienating him or being seen as 'creepy' because I wish him to know he is safe and truly loved in this house.

"Would you object much if I just held you a little longer?"

"I guess not. Feels…kind of nice. But only for a few more minutes. I'm not a little girl." He says as I ease us back against the headboard. I nod in understanding. A minute passes. "All you had to do was ask, Bruce. I'm not made of stone." He informs me relaxing in my arms. I ruffle his hair and nod.

"Neither am I."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Might be another two chapters of life in this…or it might end up turning into another epic like Endgame or Respite. We'll see how it goes. Enjoy.**

 **Brick 3**

It has now been four days since the boy sustained his concussion. His amnesia is receding faster each day. He says he can now recall the majority of his past and the two years he has spent in my company. That he has taken to calling me 'rich boy' and 'trust-fund baby' more than my actual name is a good sign. That he also largely ignores me in favour of Alfred's company during the day is also a good sign. It is a return to normality for the household. Jason is no longer confined to bed nor having paranoid delusions about such trivialities as his hair colour or being solicited by myself or the old man. I have informed Leslie of his progress and have been told it can only mean he will make a speedy and full recovery from this latest trauma. Alfred shares this opinion, and believes only a fortnight more recuperation is enough for a return to the streets. I too am optimistic. Since my presence is no longer required hour-to-hour, I go to work.

When I return shortly before five, I find the boy lounging on the steps to the house, smoking bare-chested again. His hair has yet to be dyed back. As I approach from the garage, Jason waves to me.

"Hey, big guy."

"Hello Jason. How are you feeling today?"

"Just peachy. Al's even got me back on lessons since I'm so with it today." The boy says effortlessly rising to his feet. "You patrolling tonight? I could run support for you from the cave."

"That will not be necessary. I am not going out tonight. I thought we might spend some more time together. I have really enjoyed the past few days." I inform him as we walk into the foyer together. He looks unconvinced by my reply.

"The first two days weren't exactly a picnic for anybody. And yesterday we didn't even really speak at all. I don't know where your nostalgia's coming from, but it's definitely not from me." Jason informs me when we enter the living room.

"You might be surprised to know that even when you are not yourself, you can still be likeable." I say sitting down on the sofa and unbuttoning my suit jacket. The boy shrugs his shoulders in joining me.

"That sounds unlikely. I'm an asshole when I'm myself and a bigger one when I'm not all there. If you'd rather just breeze out on patrol…I'd understand. I know I'm still not one-hundred percent ready for duty yet. Don't get dragged down by my deadweight." His self-image is hard to understand. Jason can be a brat at times, but so can all teenagers. He can get violent and horribly antisocial on occasion, but these moments are fleeting glimpses of his darkest side. I feel confident enough from the past few days to rub his shoulder in support.

"There really is little we need to attend to. The GCPD has everything in hand. We can both afford some time away from the streets. How were your lessons today?" The boy shrugs again.

"Fine. I mean, a couple of times I totally spaced and forgot what I was doing, but Al was cool with it, steered me back on. He thinks my math is weak, but natural sciences and English are both on par with 4.0 GPA." I nod in agreement whilst turning on the television and DVD player simultaneously.

"What level does he believe your math skills to be at?" I ask.

"He says around 3.5." I have yet to inform Jason that he has been studying high school standard materials for the past eighteen months as opposed to middle school resources. Following his initial theory exams during his training for the Robin mantle, both the old man and I concluded the boy was too intelligent for the middle school curriculum and graduated straight to freshman studies when he was barely thirteen. He is now midway through his sophomore year and will achieve his diploma by the time he turns seventeen. I nod in satisfaction.

"That is still excellent, particularly when considering the catalogue of injuries you have sustained in the past year. Are you happy with yourself?" I ask. Jason nods after mulling on the question for almost a minute.

"I guess so. I could do better I think. Maybe academics isn't for me though: maybe I'm just a more practical guy. I mean, I built this table." The boy gestures to the antique nineteenth century coffee table sat only a foot in front of us. I frown scrutinising the varnished veneer and the minor chip on its near-left corner I recall from childhood. This table has been in my family's possession for almost one hundred and fifty years.

"I believe you are mistaken. You could not have made this table. It has been in my family for over a century."

"No, it's a knock-off I made because I broke the other one when I tried jumping the sofa last…" Jason trails off, perhaps realising I have not heard this story before. I examine the table in finer detail. It is fractionally shorter than I recall, maybe narrower too. The chip on the left looks like forced damage instead of accidental. And its varnish is unevenly spread. The boy is right: this is not my family's antique table but an outstanding forgery from an amateur carpenter. I look over at Jason.

"You made a copy of the table instead of merely telling me you had broken it? How long did you work on this?" I ask whilst regarding the intricate lattice-work pattern across its surface.

"Uh…I don't know. Maybe two weeks?"

"And where did you work on it?" I say running my hand over the design and marvelling at the smooth nature of its lines.

"The garage. I hid it under a tarp so it looked like one of the bikes until it was done." Jason says. That is a very shrewd action on his part. I am more impressed than angry with him, considering the ridiculous lengths he has gone to in order to conceal the crime.

"Does Alfred know?"

"I really hope not. I think he'd kill me if he knew I'd buried the broken table in his rose garden."

"You did what?" We turn to find Alfred stood in the doorway with half-cleaned silverware in his hands. The old man's face is one of utter bewilderment. The boy has gone tense. Before anyone can speak, Alfred has closed the gap between us, dispensed with his task and is on his knees examining the table for himself. He turns it on its side and is presumably searching for the manufacturer's seal usually found on the underside of the object. We both see such a proof of identity is absent. Instead, the boy has written SURPRISE! In large letters using a biro. I am assuming he meant it as a joke should either of us ever have bothered to question the object's authenticity. The old man looks up from this and eyes the boy in disbelief. "A forgery. You made a forgery of a Wayne family antique and I did not notice? How long has this been in place of the genuine article?"

"I…can't really remember. Maybe…eight months?" Jason answers with a trace of panic in his voice. Alfred stands the table back up and nods in understanding. "And…how deep did you bury the other table?"

"Deeper than the roots."

"Well, I am certain that it can be salvaged…my roses will have to be replanted, but we can recover and restore the table. I only have one question for you, Master Jason." The old man declares rising to his feet.

"Yeah?" The boy says tentatively.

"Why did you not simply repair the original table as opposed to crafting an entirely new one? Surely it would have been much easier."

"I don't know. Maybe I'm an idiot or maybe I just freaked out? I totalled the table, Al, like shattered it into pieces with my landing."

"Describe what you mean by 'shattered it into pieces'." I ask intrigued by what such a scene would look like. The boy shrugs.

"It…just seemed to explode when I landed on it: legs shot off, top snapped in two, a piece of wood went halfway through my shoulder…" My eye is instantly drawn to the odd scarring on the rear of his left shoulder. Alfred rounds the table and examines the shoulder.

"I treated this when you came back from patrol. You said you impaled yourself on a spiked fence." The old man says only for Jason to wince.

"Nope. I…impaled myself on an antique table. Same difference really." I frown at him.

"You went on patrol with a gaping wound in your shoulder and did not think to tell anyone beforehand?"

"Am I grounded now?" He asks as Alfred continues to prod his shoulder in incredulity. This is all so bizarre a scenario that punishment has yet to cross my thoughts. I cannot ground him for something that happened months ago, especially when he has gone to such fantastic lengths to hide it from the pair of us. I shake my head.

"No. But you are incredibly stupid sometimes for such a bright boy. All you had to do was tell us the truth to begin with and none of this subterfuge would have been necessary."

"Yeah, but Al had already warned me about leapfrogging the furniture."

"You could have suffered severe blood loss and suffered cardiac arrest with such a terrible injury." Alfred informs him whilst inviting himself to sit on the sofa between us. "You could have died, all for not telling us the truth. You silly boy." The old man cuddles him briefly, something Jason does not object to. "Master Bruce is entirely correct: you are the stupidest intelligent child I have ever met and I have looked after Master Dick." He releases the boy who smiles sheepishly at us both.

"I can't believe I forgot that was a secret. I feel pretty dumb right now." We both offer him a smile in return. Sometimes Jason completely defies all description. I reach over Alfred and pat the boy amicably on the thigh.

"That may have been a spectacular error on your part, but your actions were very…thoughtful I would say. Alfred?"

"No, Sir, not thoughtful at all. If anything they display an astonishing lack of thought." The old man says gravely before squeezing the flesh on the back of Jason's neck, "but they were very sweet. You are a very talented carpenter, young man, very talented indeed. However, next time you break something, please tell us immediately. Understand?" Jason rolls his eyes and nods.

"Yes, Mom."

For the first time I can remember, the three of us all sit together on the sofa and watch American Dad in mute appreciation of one another's company for the next hour. The old man graciously surrenders his position between us less than ten minutes in, feigning back pain as a reason for suddenly needing a corner seat. This allows me to sit next to the boy who is far less uncomfortable with my proximity than usual when fully functional. He even ventures to rest his head against my side when I drape my arm across the top of the sofa. I do not draw undue attention to it. I am pleased he is more open than is normal. I ruffle his hair once to say as much without ruining the moment by opening my mouth. When the hour is up, Alfred excuses himself and picks up his discarded silverware in exiting the room. He tells us dinner will be served in little under an hour. Jason's head is still resting against me.

"Shall I put on another episode?" I ask him.

"Go for it. Still got like four discs to go."

"Well, since I have to move in order to change discs, perhaps you might venture upstairs and put on more clothes before dinner? You are not dining in your joggers."

"I'm not wearing a suit for dinner." He tells me finally sitting upright again.

"I never said it was a requirement. I just don't like seeing you in a single article of clothing. It gives the impression we neglect you. All your scars, contusions and cuts only add to the effect when they are on display like this." I tell him truthfully.

"Do you like to pretend you've never been hurt too?" He asks me. "If you can't see something, it's almost like it's not there, right? Like all your scars: when you wear a suit, do you almost forget how many close calls you've had over the years?" I offer him a sad smile. That is too adult a thought for a fourteen-year-old boy, no matter his background.

"Almost yes. Do you feel the same?"

"They don't bother me as much. Sometimes they do, but I don't get freaked out looking in the mirror anymore."

"Why is that?"

"Because you're here. They all kind of lose their power when I know you've got similar mementos. It reminds me I'm…not alone." I cannot think of anything to say in reply. It is a remarkable admittance to voice aloud from someone like him…and like me. Although it may sound harsh, Jason's concussion may have done more good for our relationship than years on the streets could hope to achieve. I incline my head in quiet gratitude whilst putting a hand on his shoulder.

"I can take you to have some of them cosmetically removed if you wish. It wouldn't be a problem." He considers the offer for less than two seconds before gently shrugging my hand off and getting to his feet.

"Maybe some other time when it matters more. Stick the next one in and I'll be down in five."

When he returns I find he has made something of an effort. In addition to socks and sneakers, the boy has also changed into blue jeans and a checked blue shirt. He has even managed to tuck his shirt in and put on a braided belt so it does not look awkward. The clothes cover all his marks and scars easily, as my suit does mine. We both look affluent, instead of merely damaged. He returns to his seat beside me and I begin to play the next round of episodes.

"You look very nice." I tell him when we are midway through the first episode. He smiles at me and nods.

"Yes I do. I really don't want to dye my hair back to black." He says before sighing, "I'm gonna have to though, aren't I?"

"It is too memorable a colour to be practical for our work. But there is no need to dye it today. We can deal with it when you are ready to return to duty." I say whilst sampling the soft nature of his hair for myself with a quick comb through it. Jason does not object to the contact. Things seem to be getting better between us and I sincerely hope it is not a false dawn or lingering effect of his concussion. I would like it to be a permanent turning point in our relationship. I would like us to be more family than friends.

"You love me right?" He says with insecurity about it that is definitely not a lingering effect of injury. I could say it a dozen times a day and he would still pose the same question at the end of the day as if I had not spoken at all. He can even say it himself, that he knows I love him, and still there would be room for doubt. It is the unfortunate mark of a child who has never really experienced stability or sustained affection in his life. His parents are too easy a target to blame for this attitude. Society itself has failed him. I know the feeling. I nod my head.

"Of course I love you, Jason. If you feel unhappy with any aspect of your life here, please tell me and I will do my best to accommodate you."

"I'm good. I was just…checking, you know…in case you'd…" He lets the sentence get away from him and lapses into silence. I know what he was about to articulate, but I have yet to change my mind on his inclusion in my world. He is a valuable asset in the mission and a wonderful contrast to his predecessor in personality without it becoming a hindrance. I clap him on the shoulder and then put an arm around him.

"Need I say more?" I ask. He smiles and shakes his head.

"No, I'm good. Thanks, rich boy." I squeeze him once and then return to watching the cartoon. I consider.

"I'm keeping your table even if the other one is restored." I say. The boy smirks.

"Even though mine's garage sale compared to the auction piece yours is?"

"If it fooled Alfred on his cleaning duties for eight months, it could fool an auctioneer, as long as your biro message is replaced with an imitation seal."

"Yeah, not happening. I'd love it to sell for a fortune and then see the fat cat who shelled out to find that message underneath. I'd pay to see the look of stupidity on their face when they realised how shallow they really were." Jason says with some real venom that I am growing wary of. I know the boy hates entitlement as does anybody growing up without the privileges of wealth I have enjoyed. But he hates wealthy people in general, whether they are well-intentioned or not with their finances. Even if I gave all my money away to charity and cancer research tomorrow, for him it would not be enough to exonerate me. I am thankful that being Batman seems to have blunted my culpability enough in his eyes. I suppose in his mind risking death every night to bring criminal scum to justice is a fair enough penalty for being a billionaire.

"I'm still keeping the table." I tell him in such a way to end the conversation before it turns ugly. He nods.

"I'm retired from furniture Olympics now anyway."

"That is good to know."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I might write more. Still undecided at the moment. In any case, please enjoy this instalment of Brick and make your feelings known if indeed you have any to vent. Happy trails.**

 **Brick 4**

A punch misses my face by a fraction of an inch. It skims just past my cheek and I am grateful for fast reflexes. I dodge another punch, followed by an elbow, a knee and another punch-elbow combination in less than two seconds. The boy is nearly back to combat readiness. I block a punch by closing my fist around it and blunting all its power with my bodyweight. Both Jason and I are breathing hard. We have been conducting combat tests in the cave for almost an hour. I incline my head in satisfaction. His eyes are hopeful.

"Two more days." I tell him. His face falls. "It is not much longer to wait. It will pass before you know it." I add patting him on the shoulder as his hands drop limp by his sides. I hear him groan in irritation.

"Did I really freak you out that much? It feels like I've been on the side lines forever."

"It has been less than sixteen days. And you did not 'freak me out'. I am merely being careful with your health and wellbeing. You are still only fourteen."

"Just two days right?"

"We will run the tests again on Friday. If your levels are fractionally higher than today, we will begin patrols on Saturday evening." This promise is not met particularly well by the boy. He narrows his eyes in mistrust.

"How much is 'fractionally'?"

"Two percent." I say. His eyes nearly pop out of his head. I steel myself for an imminent tantrum.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Two percent? You're turning me down because of two lousy points?" He is on the verge of screaming, but is not out of reach. I am frank in responding.

"It is the difference between you surviving a blow or dying from it."

"But I'm already operating above ninety percent! How many times have you gone to ground with less than half that?"

"You believe me to be a hypocrite in that respect?"

"Hell yeah you're a damn hypocrite! You tell me I can't go out for a two percent shortfall in performance and then go round up some gunrunners with a broken arm! It's not fair!" He is yelling now. Yelling back will solve nothing whatsoever. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and keep my voice even.

"Not, it's not, but I did suffer for my actions in doing so. In securing their arrests, I aggravated my injuries to such a degree that I required nearly three times as long to fully recuperate. If I had waited four to six weeks as Alfred instructed, I would still have secured their convictions. I will not allow you to fall into the same trap for the sake of two more days. Do you understand my position, Jason?" The boy's expression softens. He sighs before nodding.

"Yeah I get it, big guy. It's just…I haven't got much else in my life but being Robin, you know?" I understand fully. The boy does not attend a mainstream school and socialises little outside of this house unless criminal scum count. I have done nothing to discourage this isolation in recent months. I should try harder. I squeeze his shoulder in support.

"Perhaps we can change that."

This evening finds us at the local ice-skating rink. Tonight is free skating for children between the ages of twelve and sixteen. The rink is full of adolescents roughly Jason's peer group and I encourage him to interact with them. I do not take to the ice. My high profile would only distract them and work against the boy. Therefore I sit a safe distance away in the bleachers and watch him tentatively approach a group of girls. When he flashes them a smile and they giggle in reply, I am quietly optimistic of his chances.

A few minutes of what appears to be light conversation leads to Jason demonstrating a one-footed pirouette and gesturing for his audience to try for themselves. Efforts are mixed but all of them seem to be enjoying his company. A moment later, all five of them link arms and beginning skating in tandem around the outside of the rink. I am inwardly amazed at his magnetism with the opposite sex, considering his lack of experience. I smile as the group tumble to the ice in a heap. They laugh and attract the attentions of some adolescent boys nearby.

The boys, older than Jason by one or two years, exchange some words with him. Jason's smile is still in place. He pushes back off one of the larger boys before performing a seamless backwards somersault and landing neatly on his feet. His audience applauds and the two parties shake hands amicably. He and Dick share a lot in common when it comes to garnering popularity amongst their peers. I am certain that if it were any other child, a concussion would impair not only his speech centres but definitely his hand-eye coordination for longer than two weeks. His body is miraculously durable in all aspects.

I watch them skate and play games of tag as well perform various low-level tricks for the next hour. The other children tire, but the boy is still fresh. He looks as though he could go all night if necessary. After another twenty minutes of half-hearted games and enthusiasm, Jason's group of new friends dwindles. Less than fifteen minutes later, they have all left the rink seemingly to go home. The boy is left standing alone its centre, looking a little despondent. He glances around at the other skaters as they continue to laugh and play, but there is no interest in continuing. Less than two minutes after being abandoned, Jason skates to the edge and exits the rink. Moments later, he joins me in the bleachers, skates slung around his neck.

"Did you have fun?" I ask. The boy shrugs.

"I guess."

"Will you be seeing any of them again?"

"They said I could go rollerblading with them tomorrow if I wanted."

"And do you?"

"Yeah. They seem cool."

"My impression was they quite liked you, the girls especially."

"I think so. One of them said I was cute."

"I see. That sounds promising. What was her name?"

"Sarah. I'd like to see her again."

"Do you feel less caged in now?"

The boy turns to me and nods. He shoots me a happy grin, one of the rarest sights I have ever seen in his company. I feel vindicated. "Thanks for doing this. After everything that's happened…it's nice to just goof off. I kind of forgot what that felt like. For a silver-spooned rich boy with a limitless bank account and a crazy nightlife, you actually make a good adult. I might even listen to you if you keep it up." He will never label me as his parent. He does not want to be my son. I understand his reluctance bestowing such lofty titles. To him, those words imply ownership. He does not want to be owned like a pet or property. He has told Alfred that is what such labels would amount to. But being a good adult in the eyes of a boy who has learned to despise them is a very high compliment. I am grateful for it.

"Are you ready to return home or would you prefer to do something else this evening?" I ask when we have been mired in comfortable silence for a few moments. He considers.

"I've never hit a golf ball before. I remember I always wanted to try when I was little. Can we hit up a driving range?" His amnesia may be considered as eliminated. He now recalls everything that was difficult in the beginning. I nod my head.

"Certainly."

The boy is not a natural golfer despite his efforts. He is naturally athletic, something harnessed beyond his natural capacity by intense training and practice, but the art of a perfect golf swing eludes him. It may simply be the last vestiges of his concussion. Tomorrow Jason may be spectacular on the driving range. This evening he is average at best. That he can laugh at his failures is a sign of tremendous progress. Whereas anger has been his default setting for the past fortnight when muddled or poor, tonight proves his handle on his emotions is getting better. When he slices a ball into the parking lot, the boy bursts out in fits of laughter.

"I'm so bad at this!" He says aloud before shaking his head and clearing the lane for my delivery.

"Nobody can be perfect at everything, Jason." I say before connecting cleanly with my ball. It sails in a straight arc and heads past two-hundred-and-fifty metres with ease before losing altitude. It bounces once to reach two-hundred-and-eighty metres before gently rolling to a stop less than five metres later. It is on par with my average.

"Says the guy who hasn't hit the ball less than two-hundred-and-fifty metres all night. How the hell do you do it every freaking time?" Jason sighs whilst placing a fresh ball on the tee. We still have in excess of fifty left to hit.

"It is merely application of golfing fundamentals and practice. Here." I step behind him and correct his body position to a more solid base, alter his hand position on the driver and ensure the face of the club is lined up with the ball. "Now, just rotate your body and let it naturally create an arc." I gently grip his shoulders and rotate his trunk back and forth before letting go. He continues to swing independently. "And now backswing and drive through the ball with your bodyweight." Jason does as instructed and we both watch the ball take flight. It drifts right a little, but stays mostly straight. When it lands just shy of one-hundred-and-seventy metres, a personal best, the boy laughs.

"I'm glad you let me figure out it's all in the hips instead of putting your hands on them. That would've been super creepy." I smirk.

"I am not in the habit of handling a boy's hips, Jason."

"And we're all thankful for it, really we are." He says before placing another ball down. "I'm going again."

As I stand and watch him hit ball after ball in a tireless pursuit of my benchmark, improving slightly with each new attempt, I realise that this is the first time in our association that he is freely spending time with me outside of the house and the cave. Any social occasion is usually forced. He despises formality and hates being surrounded by other people who have enjoyed greater privileges or a better childhood than him. Tonight though he has been fine with the crowds and the atmosphere. He is relaxed and almost carefree at present in my company. I would even venture as far to say that he is genuinely happy to be here. It is nice to see. Eventually we run out of balls to hit. It is close to ten in the evening as we drive back to the house.

"Are you glad I got whacked with a brick?" Jason asks when we are less than ten minutes away. Until this, the only conversation to be had was from the radio broadcaster. I frown.

"No, of course not: it could have seriously injured you."

"I'm glad I got a full-on kiss from that clay son-of-a-bitch: the last couple of weeks, from what I remember, have been great." As welcome as his appraisal of his recovery is, I am still averse to him being thankful for suffering a concussion.

"I would rather we had avoided such a situation all the same. So many things could have turned against us."

"Did you like it when I cuddled you in bed?" He says, apparently choosing to ignore my response and move to an even more awkward topic of discussion. I try to be neutral in my reply.

"You were still suffering the initial symptoms of your concussion. I do hope you do not think such actions were a sign of weakness on your part."

"You know, you don't have to always be the diplomat with me. I haven't got my finger on a nuke or anything. I just want to know the truth." He says. Even focusing on the road, I am aware he is looking at me, awaiting an answer. A minute passes into obscurity.

"I do not wish to make you feel uncomfortable." I say.

"So you liked it then?"

"I did not say that."

"You really didn't need to. I liked it too. I've never been that close to a guy without the promise of a pay check, not even with my old man. It was special, you know? Told me something big."

"What might that be?"

"Not every guy is looking to fuck me. I mean that physically as well as metaphorically, just so you know."

"I see. I'm…pleased you have faith in me. It means a great deal coming from you."

We arrive home shortly after. The boy retires to his room. I leave him to his privacy and retire to the library. I am leafing through one of my father's first editions of Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, a story he liked immensely for reasons I still do not understand, when Alfred enters the room.

"Good evening, Master Bruce. How was your night?"

"It was fine, thank you Alfred. Jason seemed very engaged throughout." I say putting the tome to one side. The old man nods in satisfaction.

"I'm glad you took the initiative to get him out of the house. The lad needed some fresh air. Did he interact with other children as you hoped?"

"He is very charismatic. A group invited him to go rollerblading with them tomorrow. He intends to accept."

"Would you like me to drop him off?"

"I believe it will be after school has let out for the day. I'll provide the taxi service. I feel I owe him as much."

"Very good, Sir. If there's nothing else, I shall leave you to your reading." Alfred turns and proceeds to vacate the room.

"He said he was glad." I call before the old man is out of earshot. "He said he was glad he got hit by the house brick." The footsteps stop retreating. A moment later he reappears in the doorway. I wait for a reply. When none is forthcoming I move the dialogue along. "Did he just want an excuse to let me in? Did it really take a concussion for him to volunteer anything beyond his usual remit? What do you think?"

"The benefits of the incident in regards to your relationship with him cannot be easily dismissed. I would say…he is much happier now than he was before that ugly encounter arose."

"It isn't right, Alfred. It isn't right that suffering a potential life-altering concussion has made him happier in our company. What may be worse is that I am glad he was struck too. I'm glad such a traumatised boy endured more trauma. It is a horrible thing to admit out loud." I say as the old man crosses the room and sits in the chair opposite mine. When I was young, this setting was often the place for his counsel. He shrugs his shoulders.

"Perhaps you wanted an excuse for him to let you in as well. There is really no shame in wanting a deeper relationship with him, one that is not solely built upon violence and its applications to justice. I understand the fallout from a concussion is not the brightest of starting points for a new beginning with him, but it is a beginning you have both embraced. When faced with this, is it your conscience that is haunting you or the fact it took nearly two years for you to finally realise what can be accomplished with just a little more interaction on your part?" Alfred's perception in these matters always cuts through the dark. He is right when he suggests it is my failure to understand the need for greater contact that gives me pause.

"I forget, Alfred. More than I should. Jason is not Dick. The only thing they share is an aptitude for this kind of work. That aside, they could not be more different from one another. I know it is not a valid excuse."

"Of course not, Sir. You chose this boy. You wanted him here. You had no obligation to bring him into your world. That you have immersed him fully and not properly taught him to keep his head above water is inexcusable. Be thankful you have been given a clean slate with which to build upon. Do not waste this opportunity, not with Jason. If you do, you will live with more than just simple regret. Mark my words."

The conversation reaches a natural conclusion following that warning. Alfred excuses himself and retires for the night. I sit and reflect for a time before heading upstairs. I find myself outside the boy's room and reflect again on the old man's latest counsel. The door is ajar. I peer around it into the dark. I hear a rustle of a duvet cover that tells me I am being observed. I hold up a hand in apology.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"What were you gonna do?" The boy's voice asks from the black void that separates us, "watch me sleep?"

"No. That really would constitute being 'super creepy' on my part." I reply to earn an audible chuckle for my efforts.

"So what?"

"I wanted to tell you that you were right: I am glad for the brick incident. I am glad we can be closer to one another. It is…a very satisfying feeling to see you happy in my company." I tell him truthfully. There is a brief pause.

"Come over here, big guy…away from the light." I oblige him and pass into the dark, navigating my way by memory to the side of his bed. "Sit down a sec." He says a moment later. I again follow his instructions and sit on the side of the mattress. I feel his weight shift closer to me. An arm slowly snakes around the back of my neck. I am in unfamiliar waters now. When his other arm joins its counterpart and I feel him press against my chest in a quiet hug, I understand why he wishes for no light. This is a private moment, one that he does not want to be witnessed or shared by anybody else but us. I feel his breath graduate to my left ear and know he is about to whisper something personal and meaningful. I wait. "I don't have a concussion anymore. This is me talking now, of my own freewill. You need to know that before I say anything else." He informs me softly.

"Okay." I say in the same subdued manner.

"If I could have anyone who had ever lived be my dad, and I mean anyone at all, it'd still be you. Okay?" This is all new to me. I had no idea he considered me in that echelon at all, let alone that when faced with a choice of any man in history he would still pick me for the role. I am slightly speechless in the aftermath. So much so, he pinches the back of my neck for a prompt. I nod my head in gratitude, despite the blackness making the gesture impossible to see.

"Thank you." I say before reciprocating his actions and squeezing him without apprehension for the first time. I go to lift him up but he resists.

"Yeah, still naked under here, big guy: don't go overboard with the gestures." He says at his usual level to remind me this is reality. We let go of one another. He turns away from me and another rustle of bedcovers is a clear indicator he is ready to sleep. "Night Bruce." I understand his words are not an open invitation. He is still a teenager and I am still the adult. I think we have both come far enough this evening. I get to my feet and cross to the door.

"Goodnight…son."


	5. Chapter 5

**Brick 5**

"Back to the grind, huh?" Jason says whilst stooping over to spit blood. We have just settled our gang war by dispatching both their leaders during the midst of another violent battle. The boy has been back on duty for less than four hours, but has already sustained new injuries. However, they are negligible by both our standards. In return, he has disabled twenty of them. His toughness is astonishing. I draw up to his side and pat him on the back in both silent thanks and affection before nodding in agreement.

"Yes, very much so."

Leslie Tompkins frowns at the boy during our visit to her clinic following clean-up. She is currently applying pressure to what are obviously bruised ribs, gauging for a reaction to assess the level of pain. Jason stares impassively at her. She pushes harder and Jason smiles. I clear my throat to get her attention.

"Leslie…" She turns her head to look at me side-on. "Your diagnosis, please?" She moves her hands away from the boy's abdomen and offers me a sigh.

"He seems to be his usual charming self again. No signs of head trauma whatsoever…unless his bad attitude is a recent development?" She asks before shooting Jason a withering glare. He smirks.

"How about you warm your hands up first before you go touching underage boys? Either that or give me a reach-a…" Leslie cuts him off with a firm slap across the face. He thoroughly deserves one. She jabs a finger at him.

"Learn some respect." She tells him curtly. He looks unmoved by this warning and does not even venture to hold his cheek.

"Apologise. Now." I almost snap at him. Jason proceeds to sigh and nod in understanding. Instead of simply giving a half-hearted verbal apology as we both expect him to, the boy slides off the examination table and wraps his arms around her. Leslie looks too flabbergasted by the gesture to react.

"I'm sorry Leslie. I know I'm always a pain-in-the-ass every time I come here. I just don't like doctors, even good ones. My old man broke my arm twice. Once when I was six and once when I was eight. I told them he did it. Told them both times he did it. They didn't care. Six to eight weeks in a cast is all they said and don't submerge it in water. It's cool if I leave it there, right?" This unpleasantness is a new story to the growing picture of Jason's childhood before it became dominated by sexual abuse. I was aware his father hit him, but not to that extreme. Leslie reciprocates his gesture and rubs his back a few times in assurance.

"Yes Jason: it's more than enough." She says. He pulls away as she releases him. The boy briefly glances in my direction, seemingly to see my reaction to this new revelation, before turning back to Leslie and grinning sheepishly.

"Sorry I went dark on you." He tells her. Leslie dismisses the notion with a hand gesture. She points to each of his arms in turn.

"Left or right?"

"Left." Jason says bending his left arm at the elbow and turning his palm towards him, "Left both times. Hurt like hell when they reset it." The boy looks at his fingers before wiggling them and then balling the hand into a fist. "Doesn't hurt anymore. Used to, before all the training and decent food, it used to ache a little. Now it just hurts other people. I prefer it that way." I believe I now understand why in close-quarter combat Jason favours his left hand to deliver the finishing blows. It is to prove to himself that his left arm is not a weakness, but yet another of his strengths. Tests have proven it is fractionally weaker than his right, but barely so. Jason turns his back on Leslie to put his tunic back on.

"Jason, we need to look at your bruising to check…"

"Thanks, but no thanks, Leslie." The boy responds whilst fastening his tunic, "I prefer Al do the poking from the neck down and you do it from the neck up. No offence, but if someone's going to handle cartridge burns or knife wounds near my thighs, I'd really like it to be my regular cut man."

We arrive back at the cave shortly before one in the morning. Alfred examines the boy's new injuries which are primarily concentrated on his inner thighs while I turn the car around and replace my equipment in the armoury. The old man pronounces him fit for further duties. After we both thank him for his assistance, Alfred bids us goodnight and exits the cave. I draw closer to Jason as he continues to idly sit on the examination table and prod newly bandaged ribs.

"It may go without saying, but you performed very well tonight. I'm proud of your efforts." I say sincerely. He rewards me with an appreciative nod.

"Thanks Rich Boy. Hey, can we go hit up a golf course tomorrow? I kind of want to move beyond just hitting things really far and actually get some skill." He looks hopeful. His sudden decision to ask for permission instead of simply telling me what he is about to do is also a welcome addition to our dynamic. I nod.

"Yes, of course. I will make the necessary arrangements. Please try to get at least eight hours of sleep this evening. Goodnight." I turn to leave only for Jason to grab my wrist. Surprisingly he has more to say.

"Al says you used to read to Dick at night?"

"Yes. He enjoyed the practice."

"Would you read a story to me?"

"I never imagined you to be fond of such things."

"I figure if we're really making a fist of this new relationship of ours, we might as well start with a classic staple of a happy childhood. You going to bite or what?" I cannot tell whether he genuinely wants to engage in this activity or not. After his admittance of considering me fatherly material, the boy's attitude towards me is more proactive. He does not wait for me to tell him what to do so he can just ignore it anymore but instead suggests things he believes we might both enjoy.

"Please do not indulge me if you do not wish to do so. I would only want to read a story to you if you genuinely wished me to. Is that the case?" I say. Jason offers a lop-sided grin.

"Still think I'm telling you what you want to hear, huh?" He says sliding off the edge of the table and standing toe-to-toe with me, "When have I ever told you what you want to hear? I tell you what I think, whether you want to hear it or not. Opening up to you hasn't changed that. I want you to read me a story because I want you to read a damn story to me, no other reason. But I'm not going to coax you for it with kisses and hugs like Golden Boy probably did. I'm big enough to handle rejection." I see the sincerity in his eyes now, hear it clearly in his voice. I consider his remarks at the clinic.

"Did your father really break your arm twice?" I ask to wipe his smile clean off and saturate the cave in deathly silence for almost a minute.

"Do you really think I'd make something like that up as a get-out-of-jail-free card?" He responds with bite that cautions me to choose my next words carefully.

"No, I don't. It's just…I thought you liked your father."

"I did. But my old man was still a scumbag. He smacked me around some as long as I can remember and, two times, he broke my arm. After that, he never broke anything again. He just bruised the crap out of me instead. But in the Narrows that's normal, so don't slap it into your jigsaw puzzle of my past and expect it to fit one or more of your theories." He is getting heated by this strand of conversation. I appease him by putting a hand on the back of his neck and rubbing the flesh in a manner I hope is soothing.

"I'm sorry I brought it up. It's none of my business. If you go shower now, I'll be up to read to you in half-an-hour." The gathering storm clouds on his face dissipate abruptly. He takes a deep breath, obviously to calm his temper further, and then nods in agreement.

"Look, I love you, okay? I do. But my past is mine to deal with, not yours. Don't bring up stuff like that as if it's not very personal and private. I told Leslie because I needed her to know. It's enough that you know it happened. The why and the how aren't something I'm ever going to tell you. Or anyone else for that matter. I just want to move on and enjoy what I've got. Cool with that, right?" He volunteered an explanation without being prompted. It is enough to be considered a small victory. Another one. We are definitely communicating better. I move my hand up and ruffle the back of his hair with a nod of my own.

"Yes, of course. Shall we?"

Thirty minutes elapses. I knock and enter his room to find the boy slouched in his bed with his head propped up on a handful of pillows. The only light emanates from his table lamp and even that is dull at best. He lazily beckons me forward. I oblige and take up residence on the vacant side of the bed with tonight's offering.

"What's your doorstop called?" He inquires gesturing to the book in my hands with a smirk.

"Lord of the Rings." I say passing the thousand-page tome for his inspection. Jason turns it in his hands, but does not venture to read the jacket or flick through its pages as Dick was fond of doing. He regards it distastefully.

"It looks kind of boring. Is there a lot of violence and death in this one?"

"More than enough for you to enjoy. Are you…"

"Butt-naked under the sheets? Yep. Don't expect me to put on clothes to spare your blushes either."

"I was going to say ready, but thank you for your current state of undress."

"You're welcome, big guy. Fire when ready."

The next hour is spent negotiating the opening few chapters. Jason is not a silent listener. He constantly interrupts to pose questions and make snide remarks. I should mind such disruptive behaviour, but I don't. The boy's questions are valid and his sarcasm actually makes me smile at certain junctures of our reading. It is a markedly different experience from reading to Dick and perhaps all the better for it. Dick liked to cuddle. Jason does not even venture to so much as glance in my direction half-the-time. I doubt his nudity is holding him back: he simply does not require physical contact to feel close to me. Still, after three chapters I venture to put an arm around him. He does not object to it. We continue.

"That's enough." Jason tells me thirty minutes later, reaching over and shutting the book for me, "I wanna hit the hay now." It is close to one in the morning as I glance at my watch. I nod in agreement.

"Yes. I think that would be the most sensible course of action. I trust you enjoyed my reading?"

"You've got flair, I'll give you that. Did you do voices for Golden Boy too?"

"Dick liked them. I hope they did not distract you too much."

"No, I liked them too. Broke up the boring parts I think." He grins at me. "Batman read me a bedtime story. That's pretty crazy. In a good way. We should, I don't know, do this again sometime."

"I would read to you every night if you asked." I tell him honestly. His immediate response is to snort as if I am offering up a bad joke. When he realises I am sincere, he looks bemused.

"Nah, that's okay. I'm too old for bedtime stories anyway." My arm is still around his shoulder. My hand strokes the flesh softly.

"You're never too old for this. And I thoroughly enjoyed reading to you this evening. I like an active listener. Dick was often guilty of falling asleep before we had even graduated past the opening chapter. Many times." This comment makes him smile.

"Yeah, that sounds like him. Guy's always been a fan of forty winks."

"So are you." I counter. He laughs. It is wonderful to hear.

"Teenagers, huh? Laziest asses on the planet. Still golf later, right?"

"Of course."

"Alright then. Night Bruce." The boy says turning away from me. I stand up and switch the lamp off. The room plunges into darkness, but I retain my spatial awareness. I reach over and make contact with the back of his head. I ruffle it briefly.

"Goodnight Jason."

It is mid-afternoon on the Twisted Pines Golf Club in Uptown Gotham. We have been playing for almost two hours and are now on the fifteenth hole's fairway. I am currently six under par. The boy is fifteen strokes over. It is to be expected. Jason's driving and iron play are both strong, but his putting is weak. He struggles to judge the greens correctly and often strikes the ball too hard. He also frequently loses his temper. I am thankful they are only yelled single-word expletives and not a fully blown tantrum as before. As usual, the boy hits the ball from the fairway onto the green with decent accuracy. My ball is already on the green, waiting for an eagle putt.

"That was an excellent shot." I say as we make our way to the flag. Jason, dressed in torn jeans and an untucked shirt instead of anything remotely appropriate, is less than receptive.

"Like it matters. I'm only going to fuck up the putt again." He mutters dragging his sneakered feet so they mark the grass. I gently cuff him on the back of the head to stop this.

"Not if you read the green correctly. Simply check whether it breaks to the left or right and then estimate how much force is required to hole the ball. If you are successful, this will be your first birdie." I say in a voice I hope conveys my faith in his abilities. He rolls his eyes.

"You've been saying that for the last five holes. And it hasn't helped."

"But you are improving. You almost birdied the last hole."

"Yeah, nearly. But I still ended up three-putting the stupid thing."

"For someone who has never played golf before, you are faring better than I anticipated. I was sure you would be at least twenty shots adrift by the start of the back nine. As it stands, you have only dropped an average of one shot per hole. It is impressive." This little speech seems to strike a chord with him. He looks at me in mild surprise.

"You think?" He asks. I smile before patting him genially on the back.

"Absolutely."

Three minutes later finds the boy yelling more expletives. He has birdied the hole. I cannot recall ever hearing this level of cursing from him when victorious before. His language is amazingly colourful. I sink my eagle putt. It is becoming routine: I have eagled this hole seven consecutive times in my last seven visits to the course. Due to the shocked looks of other patrons, I kindly ask him to lower his voice and accompany me to the next hole shortly after. He manages to string together three birdies and is now looking for his fourth on the final hole. When the ball trickles into the cup to give him yet another birdie, Jason crows loudly and then inexplicably jumps at me, latching onto my front.

"I fucking did it! I fucking did it, Bruce! Four of the bastards in a row! Four of the little, stupid fuckers in a row!" He exclaims with frenzied excitement in his voice before turning to the hole and jabbing a finger at it. "Fuck you golf course! Fuck you and your piss-ant par four! I kicked the shit out of it!" By this point, everybody is staring at us. I am certain if I were not Bruce Wayne that both of us would have been banned for life by this stage. However, Jason is so pleased with himself that I find I do not care what other patrons think of his behaviour. Instead of chastising him for bad language, I just hug him. He deserves praise for his perseverance this afternoon. He deserves to know someone appreciates his efforts. He finishes on eleven over par. I do not even take my final putt. Today is not about me. It is about Jason.

He is still talking about his achievement twenty minutes later in the clubhouse as we celebrate with cheesecake. He is effusive about the whole day now it has ended in his favour and so eager to regale me with how he read the greens and decided to play them that he barely touches his dessert. I listen in fascination. This side of his character is something I recognise as a rarity. He is happy with himself. He is happy being Jason Todd. I am glad he is now able to see how exceptional a person he actually is. We leave the clubhouse just after six. Because Jason is meeting his new friends, including Sarah, I drop him off at the park and return home.

I spend the evening training in the gymnasium and then reading in the library. Due to concluding our investigation last night, I am free to engage in more leisurely pursuits. It is very relaxing to be able to unwind in this fashion. Hours pass. It is close to ten-thirty when Jason returns. I have moved from the library to my preferred chair in the living room to continue reading. When I glance up to greet his arrival, I am met with a troubling sight. The boy's shirt is spattered with fresh blood. The lack of any sign of injury suggests the blood is not his. The irritation on his face negates the prospect of a friend being injured. He is not concerned, but annoyed. I would imagine it means he has engaged or been engaged in combat. I close my book and set it to one side.

"What happened?"

"Don't jump down my throat or I swear to God…"

"I promise I will not. Tell me what transpired." Jason puffs out his cheeks and sits down on the sofa.

"I…hit like two guys. They were from Sarah's school, sophomores I think."

"Did they hit you first?"

"No. They slapped her first though. So I punched their lights out." He announces bluntly. I take these facts into account whilst re-examining the spatter pattern on his shirt. There is one scenario that would fit such a pattern when teenage hormones are in play.

"Did you break both their noses?" I inquire. He shakes his head.

"Nah, just one. He was a big bleeder though." Jason says thumbing his shirt, "Fucker ruined it with his blood. Al isn't getting this out. And Sarah wasn't too impressed with me either. It was hard to tell, but I think maybe one of them was her brother or cousin or something."

"Why was it hard to tell?"

"She was shrieking at the time. Then they all left me. My new dye job didn't help either. She said I looked better with my strawberry curls. First thing she said." He says, his voice growing more jaded with every word until he rises to his feet. "I need a smoke." Things have turned decisively sour this evening for him. I understand his frustration at doing the right thing and being chided for it by his peers. It likely only struck them once or twice. It is unfortunate his speed and strength are sufficient to permanently damage someone in his age group with little effort. Adolescence is complicated. I follow him outside. He is in his usual position on the steps, already a third of the way into his cigarette. "You mad at me, big man?"

"No. You acted with good intentions. Are you angry at yourself?"

"Hell no. You don't hit a girl, no matter what. Even my old man never hit my mom and there were times when he looked ready to kill her. Shouting was as far as he ever got." He says, pausing to take what looks like a contemplative drag on his cigarette. "Obviously when they've got a gun and are threatening to kill you or other people, you know, you have to take em out." Chivalry is an admirable code. However, both Jason and Dick and I are guilty of hitting women during patrols and operations. In these instances, we act to preserve life and for no other reason. Were we not to do so, many more lives could have been lost. Crime is gender-free. I take a seat beside him.

"Perhaps when things have calmed down, she will realise you acted in her best interests." I offer. He nods.

"Yeah, maybe."

We sit in silence for a few minutes. The boy finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the step. Then he looks at me. He does not even venture to open his mouth. He simply looks at me. I have no idea if he is trying to read me or for what purpose. I return his gaze and wait for something to happen.

"Sometimes I can't believe you're for real." He tells me. He does not expand on this statement. I understand what he means well enough. I adopt a small smile.

"Sometimes I can't either."

"Your old man, I doubt he'd even recognise you if he were alive."

"I think he would. Regardless of my skills or achievements, I am still the same person I was as a child. I have merely…maximised my potential. But I am still his son. I am still Bruce Wayne."

"I'm not still Jason Todd." He informs me. I raise my eyebrows at this.

"No?"

"No. That kid was a miserable son-of-a-bitch. And he hated everything."

"So who are you now?" I ask. He looks away and shrugs nonchalantly.

"Just another happy kid in a good family. Like everyone else I used to hate."

"And you don't feel like, a 'poser'?" I check. The boy had made frequent mention of how 'phony' children are at the various functions we both must attend from time to time. He calls them posers and has always believed they were only acting contented for the sake of appearance. He grins at me.

"Nope. Because I know the love in my family is for real." I cannot think of a suitable response to this. I stare at him in silence until he breaks the tension. He gets to his feet and then stoops down to kiss me on the cheek. The gesture is more powerful than words could hope to be. He does not wait for a response from me. He continues back towards the front door as I sit and reflect. "Bruce?" He calls when at the top of the steps. I turn my head.

"Yes?"

"Story in ten?"

I smile. "Certainly."


	6. Chapter 6

**Brick 6**

A common theme is beginning to take the characteristics of a recurring motif on the streets. No sooner have we diffused one gang war, another one only a mile away has broken out in a spate of gunfire and blood. As such we find ourselves once again embroiled in a needless turf war between rivals, this time east of Park Row. Unfortunately, this one is just as embittered a contest as the other last month. Projectiles and incendiaries fly, blows are exchanged with fists, bats, crowbars and whatever else is at hand whilst we and the GCPD task force attempt to find its epicentre. Twenty minutes of uninterrupted combat is broken when a thrown object brings me to my knees.

The cowl absorbs the brunt, but my sudden lack of equilibrium is an invitation the assembled masses cannot ignore. I am set upon by eight assailants at once. I fell three with a leg sweep and elbow that dislocates a stray knee. The other five however land damaging blows to my ribs that prevent me from mounting a vertical base. I incapacitate another four from my vulnerable position, attacking ankles and knees with pin-point strikes. More retaliation follows by more feet. Many more feet. I am pinned by the weight of strikes coming down for maybe twenty seconds. Then the boy comes to my rescue. He does not waste time.

In a matter of seconds, all our opposition are listless on the ground around me. I rise to my feet and take note that five of my ribs are cracked and maybe one or two are broken. It hurts to breathe. The boy is beside me, brandishing a splintered baseball bat in his right hand. His left hand appears unnaturally limp in hanging at his side.

"You okay, big man?" He asks, kicking the few opposition still trying to crawl. I press hard against my right side to alleviate my breathing problems in answering.

"I shall live. Is your hand broken?" Jason flexes the thumb of his left hand.

"I'm four fingers down, but my hand's still in one piece."

"How?"

"Some guy tried to crack the back of my head open with a baseball bat," He explains waving his weapon for my inspection, "Fingers took one for the team: can't have too many concussions. I might actually forget to save your ass next time." The boy offers a lopsided grin I cannot share. Tonight has been a bad night. I stare around the battlefield and count two GCPD officers being assisted into squad cars by colleagues with limb-related injuries as well as one lying prone on the ground being comforted. The scum are silent, but this violence is just the opening episode of what is sure to be a prolonged fight for supremacy.

"Have you taken your painkillers?" I ask him whilst producing my own syringe from the belt. He shakes his head.

"You can't be high on a battlefield, Bossman. I figured I might wait until we got back home to zone out on painkillers."

"Are you not in pain?"

"Yeah, tons, but it's not like it's an excuse to get wasted before we even leave the scene."

"Admirable, but I need you to take it before treatment is administered." I instruct him whilst injecting the syringe in my upper thigh. The burning sensation and grinding ceases after twenty seconds. Jason still appears reluctant.

"It's just fingers. Not even the ones I really like." He says. I shoot him a hard stare. He sighs and relents. "Fine."

We conclude matters with the GCPD task force less than fifteen minutes later. The officer lying on the floor, Sgt David McCaskill, is fine. He was merely knocked unconscious, ironically by a wayward house brick. Other injuries are light compared to what was meted out in reply. The drive back is uneventful. My tolerance to morphine as well as other strong painkillers borders on that of a high-functioning addict. As such, I am still of sound mind when arriving back at the cave. The boy is less than one-hundred percent. He is laughing a lot whilst repeatedly losing his train of thought and having difficulty in pronouncing words with more than two syllables. None of these have affected his motor skills or fondness for blue language.

"Think I'll ever be able to play the piano again, Al?" Jason asks on the examination table as his fingers are splinted and then taped together. All the breaks are clean, a remarkable stroke of luck. The old man has estimated less than four weeks for full recovery. My own prognosis is less brief. My ribs are expected to be healed five weeks from now if I abstain for all strenuous activity in the meantime. I am understandably sour.

"Believe or not, Master Jason, it is possible to play both Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Chopsticks with one hand. Even one finger if we were to imagine a worst case scenario." Alfred replies with a thin smile. The boy has endured one piano lesson. Everyone agreed he should not continue.

"Like this one, Al?" The boy checks, giving the old man the middle finger from his right hand. Alfred narrows his eyes in disapproval, but Jason is already laughing too much to notice. His spirits may take a nosedive tomorrow when the drug wears off and reality sets in. Despite my clarity at the moment, I will likely feel similar in the morning. Getting to the house is like climbing a mountain. Lying down on my bed brings only mild relief. I tell myself tomorrow will be better. I sleep.

I awake sometime after eight-thirty. Alfred is on hand to provide the next round of medication and offer breakfast in bed. I politely decline in slowly rising to my feet. The old man is not impressed.

"You should not attempt anything like you are doing for at least three or four days, Master Bruce: your ribs need time to at least begin the healing process before you damage them again."

"I am not going far, Alfred: I merely wish to check on the boy. You may bring us both breakfast in his room if that would allay your fears."

"Master Jason has merely broken his fingers: the rest of his body is more than capable of journeying here if you want his company." Alfred reminds me. It is a salient argument to make. However, my reason for visiting the boy is not one of practicality.

"I enjoy waking him up." I tell him. The old man does not look surprised by this confession.

"It is true he reacts better to you waking him than I these days." Alfred agrees whilst placing several tablets in my hand. "Ensure he takes all of these for the bruising and swelling. Try not to collapse and die on your way there, Sir. It would be most unbecoming." He adds with a sardonic smile. I narrow my eyes.

"Don't tempt me, old man." I say, placing the tablets into my shirt pocket and exiting the room with slow, careful steps.

I enter Jason's room to find the boy in a predictable tangle amongst the bedsheets. He is sleeping on his right side and almost cradling his left hand against harm as he does so. It is a difficult position to comfortably fall asleep in. I should not be surprised he has mastered it. Alfred once found him wedged between the sofa suite and the footstool with both legs crushed against his stomach and his face mashed into the carpet. He slept in that position for six hours before waking up. As I approach his bed, my peripheral vision alerts me to something on my right. I turn and find myself confronted with something wholly unexpected.

Standing on a cleared dresser top is an enormous house of cards. The structure is that of a classic card tower where two cards form a triangle upon which additional floors are placed. I count sixteen pairs in his initial foundation that tapers all the way to one at its peak. I estimate it has taken a minimum of four complete decks of cards to complete. Since Alfred bravely volunteered to clean his room yesterday afternoon, at which point there was no giant tower on display, I can only assume he built it last night prior to bed. That means he managed the whole project with just one hand. It is remarkable. I move past it and draw up to the side of his bed.

"Jason?"

The boy groans loudly, takes a fleeting glance over his shoulder at me, and then buries his face into the pillow. "What?"

"It's time to get up."

"Bite me."

"Jason…"

"You need to go back to bed anyway. You're a moron to be rocking around with half your ribs out of commission." He says without moving his face from the pillow. I can already tell from the way conversation has opened that he is in a bad mood. I cannot win this argument. So I try a different tact.

"Your card house is very impressive."

"My what?" Jason says propping himself up on his right elbow. When he sees the mountain of cards atop of the dresser, I see his eyebrows raise only slightly in reaction. "Huh. Must've taken the morphine last night."

"Is this something you do often when under the influence of medication?"

"Only the strong stuff. I don't remember doing that crazy-ass thing at all."

"You must have phenomenal dexterity to do something like that with only one hand."

"Maybe. Any monkey can do it with enough practice."

"You're rather mean to yourself Jason."

"I was talking about you." I look over at him sternly. He grins back at me in a manner that instantly communicates he meant it to be funny, not hurtful. "Sorry. I'm not really awake yet. I'll try harder next time."

"Good." I turn back to the card house. "Who taught you to card-stack?"

"I've been building them since I was five. Real toys are expensive. I guess if anyone taught me anything, it was my old man. Guy had magic hands." The boy says. I hear him shift his weight until I am certain he is now sat on the edge of the bed behind me.

"Was he something of a card shark?" I inquire. Jason audibly smirks.

"He was everything a crook could be at one point or another. He hustled for a living when he wasn't running with a crew. Card games were one of his better skills. He was a hell of poker player without cheating. And when he did cheat, he did it smartly. One time his winning streak at the tables lasted almost a month before they cottoned on and broke his shuffling hand. And after that, Find the Queen down at the corner of the street became the money-maker. When that dried up, he went back to the pool halls."

"I am aware of your pool hustling credentials. Did you ever follow him into card grifts?" I say turning back to face him. The boy has his arms loosely folded across his chest and the sheets bunched in his lap. He shrugs and addresses the floor.

"He whipped my ass every time he caught me grifting. The second time he broke my arm was because of playing hooky to hustle kids at Find the Queen. I learnt no lesson from that except how to run cons with one arm for eight weeks. I guess it never left me." Halfway through his reply, Jason started rubbing his left arm, likely recalling phantom pains from that particular event. A few moments of silence follows. Then he looks up and shrugs again. "No use crying about it all now though, huh? The guy's dead: he did the best he could." I have no right to say anything to the contrary. Jason shoulders his baggage with an ease many abused children would envy. Adult survivors would also hope to live life with the freedom he seems to enjoy on a daily basis.

"I suppose not. I am returning to my room for the remainder of the day. I hope you might join me for a while. I thought it might be nice if we had breakfast together. Perhaps watch some cartoons whilst we do." In my mind the invitation sounds stilted, even artificial. It is still a strange sensation to be so close to him. Jason's expression confounds this speculation as does his almost immediate response.

"Yeah, okay. Just let me get some pants on and I'll wander over."

We are approximately halfway through breakfast and watching a TV series the boy enjoys called Dragonball Z. I have not really formed an opinion on it or its characters, despite having watched the best part of two full episodes. I am far more concerned with what our respective injuries mean for the current investigation. We cannot impact things in the way we ought to. A sudden and prolonged lack of physical presence on the streets may lead to more emboldened fighting from the gangs. It may also result in an increase in crime once the word of our absence has spread to the corners of this metropolis. And while I am confident that Jim and the GCPD can at least contain the situation from becoming the initial stages of mass civil disorder, I feel something extra must be done to bring Gotham back to its normal levels. My thoughts on the matter are interrupted when I realise the boy is staring at me instead of the screen.

"Yes Jason?"

"I can see the little cogs going behind your eyes. What's got you now? Is it our new gang problem? Are you pissed you can't kick ass on the streets?" I expected him to pick on my detached mood. There is little where my mind is concerned that the boy cannot read from a glance. I give him a straight answer.

"I would prefer to solve the problem sooner rather than later."

"Your brain not come up with a solution yet? You have to have some idea what's going to happen next in this little melodrama." He says without sarcasm. I have partial solutions.

"There are several likely possibilities. I suppose it is a short enough list to furnish Commissioner Gordon with. It could offer guidance on how to deal with issues that may arise if nothing else."

"Great. So do that later. Job done as far as it can be for now. You going to try and enjoy breakfast now?" Jason has evidently not been oblivious to my lack of engagement this morning. His tone tells me of his irritation at this. I nod my head in agreement.

"Yes. I'm sorry if I seemed less than enthused up until now." I say returning to my eggs. Jason shrugs haphazardly.

"Just don't invite to do something if you're not going to give a shit about it when we do it. Okay?" Despite our progress in recent weeks, the boy can still be cold when it suits him. However in this scenario, his attitude is understandable. I nod again.

"Understood."

The day passes. Slowly. Jason leaves shortly after ten. I compile notes on the current turf war until mid-afternoon at which point I pass them to Alfred to forward on to the GCPD via a secure server. Once this has been completed, there is little else of use to be done. I busy myself by reviewing business documentation and attempting to read Herman Melville, for perhaps the twentieth time, until Jason returns. The boy finally reappears just before dinner, still only dressed in a pair of lounge shorts.

"How's your hand?" I ask as he passes through the doorway and rounds the bed. He shrugs.

"Shitty. How are your ribs doing?"

"They still hurt. What have you been doing with yourself today?"

"Nothing fancy. Ran a nine-miler, did some leg work in the gym afterwards…jerked it a few times. Just my usual. Al squeezed in some English and Math lessons too when I was wasn't in the shower or cleaning up." The boy says casually before inviting himself to sit on the corner of the bed. "You get Al to send that gang stuff to Jim?" Irrespective of his relationship with Jim Gordon, the boy should not be so familiar, especially when speaking to me.

"His name is Commissioner Gordon. The man has earned his title. But yes, Alfred has sent the relevant information to him." I say as he elects to launch himself from his position to the vacant side of the bed, causing my book and other papers to scatter themselves over half the room in the aftermath. I stare down at him in disapproval. He grins back.

"I bet if Golden Boy did that, you'd be smiling about it." He challenges, "But because it's me, it's 'not appropriate behaviour'. Am I right?" He is clearly restless if he has only come here to push buttons. I can sympathise. Convalescence of any sort is tedious. I reach down and stroke his hair, despite his current inverted position with his back against the headboard and his legs over his head making it more difficult than usual.

"On the contrary. For you, that was quite tame. I'm sorry you're bored." I say. His smile is replaced by apathy. A tired sigh follows.

"I kind of wish I'd broken my whole hand. At least then we could stick it in a cast and I could go off skating or whatever." He says holding out his bruised and taped fingers for inspection, "These just suck."

"Why did you tell me the reason behind your father breaking your arm? I thought you were never going to explain such things." I ask having thought on the matter all day. The boy rights himself to a sitting position and looks at me with confusion.

"How do you know it's the truth? How do you know I didn't just make the whole thing up to stop you guessing?" I frown at this logic.

"Did you?"

The boy's gaze drifts from mine until it falls upon his left arm as it rests in his lap. He is looking past the elbow joint at where the humerus bone ties into his scapula. The break must have been high if his attention is drawn to that region. "It was just a card game." Jason says before reaching over and rubbing his left arm with his right hand, "And I was just copying him. He should've broken his own arm if it was that big a deal. But he broke the nine-year-old's instead." The boy looks close to tears. Then he stops rubbing his arm, takes two breaths and returns his eyes to mine. "But he's dead. It's easy to blame him when he can't explain himself. And it's not fair either. He did the best he could." Many other boys in such a precarious emotional state would have broken down. Jason was as close to crying as I have ever seen him. And still, he kept himself reigned in. Still he refused to properly attack or decry his father's reprehensible actions. I would call it remarkable if it did not also break my heart. He is fragile, but cannot bring himself to show distress or vulnerability.

I put my hand gently on his left arm, hoping he does not flinch. His eyes are firmly locked on mine now. He is trying to gauge whether to fight or flee. I rub his arm in the same manner he does himself, but slower and with less urgency to banish demons or phantasms. He allows me to persist for long minutes without any attempt at conversation. I tug him towards me without being forceful. He considers shirking my grip and leaving. I can see that option flash across his eyes. Then he allows himself to come towards me. The rest of the positioning, he does himself. Less than ten seconds later, his head is on my chest and my arms are around his back. He digs his feet under the covers until he is buried up to his waist beside me. I comb through his hair.

"Comfortable?" I inquire. He shifts slightly, actually taking pressure off my ribs in the shuffle.

"I guess."

"Shall we watch more Dragonball Z?"

"There's just me going through your head now, right?" He checks after what happened at breakfast. I nod.

"There is just you."

"Okay then. Stick it on, big guy. From where we left off." I turn on the television and DVD player with the remote before settling further down into the bed. The boy adjusts his position accordingly. I am mindful of his left hand as he hugs my body in the teddy-bear fashion he had previously. I do not wish to accidentally crush it in shifting my weight. Alfred wanders in some twenty minutes later. The old man stops and stares at us in silence for several moments before clearing his throat.

"Pardon my intrusion, Sirs. I merely came to inform you dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. Shall I bring it up for you both?"

"No." Jason says before I can say anything. "Stick it in the fridge and sit your ass down here with us, Al." Alfred's eyebrows raise up alarmingly.

"Is one oversized teddy bear not enough, Master Jason?"

"No jokes, Al. Please come sit with us? Not feeling so great right now." The boy responds. He is still feeling the effects of reliving his traumas. He will never admit to it, but that is what is prompting this behaviour. The old man offers an understanding smile. He removes his shoes and wanders over to the vacant side of the bed. When he sits on the mattress, Jason becomes sandwiched between us, a position he does not seem to mind at all. "Underneath." The boy instructs, almost as a mutter. Alfred does not ask him to repeat himself. The old man simply discards his tailcoat and dresses under the covers. He stares across the boy at me, wordlessly asking if Jason is okay. I communicate the nature of the problem by rubbing my left arm. As I expected, Alfred knows about the breaks: The boy would be foolish not to confide in him about such things. The old man nods before reaching down and rubbing Jason's back, carefully manoeuvring around his litany of scars. A moment later he pulls up the bed-sheets to cover the boy to his shoulder. "Don't go, okay?" Jason tells him.

"I'm sure dinner will keep. What are we watching?" Alfred asks unfastening his bowtie to dispense with the air of formality completely.

"Dragonball Z." The boy answers.

"I see. Will I enjoy it?"

"Nope. Not really the point though, is it?" Jason says. The old man smiles and ruffles his hair.

"No, it is not."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: The aftermath of Bruce and Jason's struggle with terrorists on Gotham Bridge some weeks after previous events. Bruce's POV. If you want the actual events preceding this to be added in (e.g. battle on the bridge with crazy terrorists) please say so. On a Jason kick at the moment. Expect a few more stories with him being featured as Robin.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **After the Fall**

I manage to stop myself from collapsing on the living room sofa by the barest of margins. Tonight's activities were…I believe the word has yet to be invented. They happened. Everything happened. The city just about survived the fallout. I think. Moments later, Jason joins me on the sofa. He is already in workout sweats but has yet to venture anywhere near a shower. Smoke, blood and dirt pepper and dash his skin like abstract art. A brief appraisal of my hands give no clue of the latest battle scars accrued, the benefits of wearing gloves and a full-body suit. We sit in reflective silence for several minutes, not even bothering to glance in each other's direction.

"Was it my fault?" The boy asks without much conflict. He knows the answer to that. I shake my head.

"No."

"Was it yours?"

"No."

"Really?" Jason checks turning to me, "No crucifying yourself on this one?" He knows me well. Perhaps a few years ago, I would have blamed myself. Now, I understand the truth of the situation. I turn my head and return his gaze.

"I…couldn't save those people. No-one could have, given the circumstances."

"We saved everyone else though. How many on the bridge?"

"The final count was…one hundred and eighty…two, I believe." I say, mindful I struggled to comprehend Jim's initial figures in the immediate aftermath. There was still a lot of disorientation.

"And we lost, what, like thirty?"

"Twenty-six. Twenty-six in the bus. Eighteen children and eight adults." I say, recalling those details with unwanted clarity. The boy nods.

"Right." He returns to staring into space. I join him. A lengthy silence follows. "GCPD did well though, huh? Really walked through the fire at the end." Jason says jostling my elbow before audibly sucking through his teeth. Alfred said it was just a shoulder strain. I am hoping it is nothing more serious. I nod in agreement.

"They performed beyond the level required. It was…a good sign of things to come."

"Yeah." We lapse back into quiet. More minutes pass by. "Terrorists are real assholes, huh?" I smile. I am wholeheartedly in agreement with that opinion.

"Without question."

"Think we got the whole cell on the bridge?"

"No. But we have the addresses of those who did not join in the suicide bombing. The GCPD and Anti-Terrorism Units are converging on them as we speak. This will be over by tomorrow…at least in terms of legitimate threats." I say with admittedly more confidence than I thought I would muster at this point. The boy does not offer a verbal reply. He nods. I sigh.

"Bed, I think."

"Yeah, for a long-ass time." Jason says grabbing hold of my knee for purchase as he tiredly rises back to his feet. I watch him pad to the door with bare feet. I have no idea if Dick would have performed as well as his successor did this evening, given the same stakes. The boy is like granite and just as difficult to break down. "Night, big guy. Hey, wake me up in the morning? I'd like to spend some time with you, just chilling, you know?" He says without looking back as he disappears through the doorway. I would like that too.

"I'll bear it in mind, Goodnight son." That makes him pause for a fraction of a second. Then he continues and I am left alone. Thirty minutes of sombre reflection evaporates. Alfred enters the room sometime around two a.m. The old man stares at me wistfully.

"Not carrying the cross up the hill again, are you, Sir?" He asks with only the slightest trace of humour. He knows me very well. I dismiss it with a wave of my hand.

"That is somewhat close to sacrilege, is it not, old friend?" I say, having finally regained the strength to get to my feet. Alfred scoffs.

"Not even close, Master Bruce. This is merely a very evocative metaphor for the Messiah Complex." The old man says switching off the table lamps.

"Did you hear how many lives were saved this evening?" I inquire leaving the room. Alfred follows close behind, turning off the main light as he does so.

"Of course. You and Commissioner Gordon should be proud of your combined efforts."

"And that boy was…remarkable. Stunning." I tell him gesturing upstairs. "I could not be more proud of him than I am at this moment."

"Have you told him as much?"

"The terrorist cell did interfere in the festivities somewhat. This city has enough lunatics with agendas without adding fanatics that have nothing but thinly veiled religious rhetoric to explain mass murder and destruction." I comment as we enter the parlour.

"You sound almost jaded, Master Bruce. Are you ready to call it a day?" He asks as I begin to scale the grand staircase. It is now my turn to scoff.

"Hardly. This is the third major terrorist attack this year and had the lightest casualty list for the past decade. No, I am simply tired. Tomorrow will be a better day." I say firmly.

"Yes, Sir. It after all cannot get worse from here." Alfred calls from the base of the stairs before footsteps signal his own withdrawal to bed.

It is nine a.m. I am stood in front of the television, nursing a mug of black coffee. All media outlets and all news coverage is dominated by the bombing at Gotham's North Bridge. Terrorist mugshots, grainy video footage and full-colour still photography paints an unsettling picture of the night's events. The narrative, such as it is, heavily features the GCPD and their stellar efforts. However, there are several videos of Batman and Robin flooding the market as well. A cell phone apparently captured the instant I caught two people destined for a watery grave and led them to safety. There are also copious images of the boy standing toe-to-toe with some of those individuals responsible before dispatching them. We could do without the publicity. Outcry over Jason's age as well as speculation on my training methods to spawn his level of ability are also heavy talking points this morning.

I abandon my monitoring in favour of waking the boy sometime after nine-thirty. I neglected to wear my wristwatch this morning. I knock once, get no response and enter the room. As usual, he is sprawled in some ungodly shape on the mattress whilst bedsheets and blankets fail to provide either modesty or dignity while he sleeps. They currently lay in an untidy limbo, halfway on the corner of the mattress and halfway on the floor as I approach. I retrieve them in rounding the bed and cast them over him before venturing further. He has showered off his evening's workload and looks tame enough to wake. I shake his shoulder.

"Jason?"

"Mmm?"

"How much more sleep do you require?"

"A hundred years." He mutters whilst turning away from me and huddling down further into the bed. I understand the sentiment. I sip my coffee.

"So, I should leave then?"

"Nah. I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead." The boy announces turning back over and propping himself up on one elbow. "I got eight hours." He adds running a hand down his face, "Now I'm ready to chill."

We sit on his bed and eat breakfast whilst watching more media coverage. They have now graduated to the lives lost from the night's attack. School photos are shown in sets of six with names underneath. Then the teachers' portraits are displayed. Both of us continue to eat despite the trauma of witnessing the bus plunge into the water whilst only inches away. We must carry on regardless. Jason gestures at the screen with his spoon.

"Fuck this guy." He says as Jack Ryder delivers another rendition of the now well-trodden story of last night. "He was there. He was there and he did nothing to help anyone but himself. Fucking asshole." I agree Ryder was not the epitome of self-sacrifice or bravery, but neither were many other people. Even officers in the GCPD were tentative in lending aid in the beginning.

"Not everyone is like us." I remind him. He somehow audibly rolls his eyes.

"No excuse for being a coward, not on a night like that." The boy says letting his spoon rattle in an empty bowl to project his finality on the subject. "Anyway, fuck him. And fuck the news. Let's watch something interesting, huh? No more dead schoolkids or splattered bits of terrorist." I like that he's blunt. I like that he's not afraid to speak freely. I just wish he would agree to wear some clothes. Even buried up to his navel in sheets, I still find the scenario awkward. Still, I get up and put on one of his preferred DVDs, _The Best of the Three Stooges_.

"Are you going to get some pants on at some point?" I ask after an hour has elapsed. Jason shrugs.

"At some point. It's not like I'm waving it in your face. I don't know why you care."

"I don't. I just want an excuse to change the DVD."

"No Marx Brothers. Hate them. Not funny." The boy tells me in no uncertain terms. I also like that he is opinionated and that are usually against my tastes. I sigh.

"Well in that case, neither are the Three Stooges."

"We're not having this argument again. This is supposed to be a chilled-out day, not a bitch-fest." He retorts sharply. This could become heated with remarkable speed if I do not diffuse the tension. I nod whilst placing an arm around his shoulder.

"You're absolutely right. You deserve a reward for your efforts last night." Jason responds to this act of contrition by adjusting his position until his head is resting on my side. Secretly, he enjoys this type of quiet affection. I like it too. Any subtle emotional cue with him is rewarding. He sighs.

"It's fine. I know you're only breaking my balls. How about we watch something you like? I could go for some Clint." The boy offers. Clint Eastwood would be preferable to this farce. Concessions of this nature by him are rare. It means a great deal to me. I squeeze his shoulder in gratitude.

"That would be nice."

An hour passes. Lunch arrives and is devoured. Alfred is more than happy that we are confining ourselves to one space for such a prolonged period of times: he says it allows him to conduct proper and thorough cleaning of our usual haunts, including the cave's main areas. We do not impede him by changing tact. A Fistful of Dollars is put on and we remain unmoved on the bed. Jason does not offer any further affection than resting his head on my side, but does not resist my attempts. Stroking his hair is met well, as is the single occasion I dare to kiss him on the scalp.

It's always strange to see the contrasting sides of him so close in succession. Jason has a concrete bunker for a mind. No matter the trauma or the pressures hitting him, he will never break. Last night was a prime example of how much strain he can handle. When that bus disappeared under the water, the initial impact killing off rescue hopes in the process, the boy did not flinch. He merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to help those he could save. Twenty-six lives lost. He could just block that out. And that is why being here with him now is so surprising.

The door to the bunker is deliberately left open for me to wander through. No second line of defences, no distancing whatsoever. He can be lovely when he chooses, almost domestic at times. And this is _my_ reward for the previous evening. His affection does deaden my feelings of guilt and culpability. I imagine it has something to do with him being a bigger cynic of this city than anyone else I have met. And yet, he is still willing to fight for it. If a jaded pragmatist loves me enough to continue battling for a city that has brought him nothing but misery, not because he wants to but because I want him to, I think I can bear some casualties without complete self-flagellation.

"Another?" I ask when the film's final credits disappear from view. Jason considers then shakes his head.

"Nope. I just want to lie here for a couple of minutes. Maybe then we put something on."

"Whatever you please."

The boy closes his eyes and breathes deeply. This lasts for almost exactly two minutes. Then he opens his eyes, pushes away from me and gestures to the blank screen. "Cue up number two, big guy. Need something sizeable to plug this awkward silence." I respond my handing him his favourite pair of board shorts from the bedside drawer.

"Why don't you put these on and do it yourself? Unless you prefer awkward silences that is." I suggest, trying to kill two birds with one stone. The boy sizes me up and my suggestion. He knows I will not move. He knows he must put on the next disc himself. He also knows I am uncomfortable with his nudity. That is why his next move likely seems obvious to both of us in hindsight.

"Oh no. I hate awkward silences, Bruce." He declares whilst haphazardly throwing back the covers and hopping out of the bed, leaving his shorts behind. "Keep the eyes above my waist, huh? I'd hate to have to brand you a pervert too." He adds with a lopsided grin that signals his amusement at this crude showcase. I direct my gaze to another part of the room, far away from him. "Do you want to just roll through them in order?" He asks whilst crouched in front of the film collection situated below the television. I glance up at the ceiling.

"I have no objections either way. Do you have a favourite?"

"A Few Dollars More. Which is convenient since it's next in the series. Happy with that?"

"Certainly."

I hear the box open and disc being taken out. Then there is a pause. "Ever think it's weird?" He says. I frown.

"What are you referring to?"

"How we just kind of move past all the terrible things that happen in this city? Only my body remembers how hard we worked last night: I can't remember half of it."

"Perhaps even terrorism is becoming routine in this place." I reply whilst directing my eyes down from the ceiling. Jason is sat on the floor with the disc on his finger. Nothing is showing at the current angle. "Does that aspect of the job bother you, Jason?"

"Not me. I haven't been at this long enough to really get scarred by it all. I was talking about you. How come you haven't been driven nuts by it? You've been at this what, nearly ten years? Stuff like last night, doesn't it just compound the PTSD?" He asks with genuine curiosity. I pride myself on my memory. But even I have lost count of the similar incidents encountered over my career as Batman. I will admit my heart is harder now. My abilities to suppress or even bury all the pain my lifestyle has forced me through is also augmented to startling levels. I shrug my shoulders.

"I doubt I would recognise more PTSD now, even if it fell on top of me like a brick wall."

"Ever think about help?"

"Rather ironic coming from you, isn't it?" My tone is not snide or cutting, merely factual. Jason accepts it in the same vein.

"Probably." The boy admits with a shrug of his own before feeding the new disc into the now empty tray. I catch sight of his back's many scars. He stands up and casually wanders around the side of the bed to return to his position beneath the covers. No embarrassment. No shame. The film's opening credits play over the spaghetti western riff. Jason elects to cuddle against my side. I return to stroking his hair. Silence resumes.

"You missed a spot." I say with less than twenty minutes of the feature left to run. I have just brushed behind his right ear and found a smear of wet ash. He smirks.

"I missed a lot of spots. I've been sneezing ash the whole morning." It had not escaped my notice. He has also been coughing soot. Thankfully, it is beginning to clear. I smile back.

"Diving into fiery wrecks will produce such an affectation. How many lives did you save?"

"Almost everyone you didn't. We could be sweepers on a hockey team with coverage like that."

"Perhaps you should play on a team. We could look for a league if you like." I suggest to make him audibly mull it over.

"Don't think I'm too aggressive for it?"

"Hardly. As long you refrain for breaking bones every week, you could be very effective for any sports team, including hockey. Would you be interested?"

"Yeah, actually. Sign me up for hockey, big man. I'd like to make some guys cry like girls." It would be good for him to vent. The first sign of trouble though and I will pull him. That will likely be the end of his competitive sporting career. I warn him as much.

"Just so long as lawsuits do not follow you home." I say. He laughs.

"You've got a deal."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Alfred's POV. Jason is forced into grocery shopping with Alfred after losing a bet.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Shopping**

 **Alfred**

I watch impassively as the video feed displays another degenerate being felled by teenage fists. The poor sod collapses to the ground with the grace of a dead elephant, a creature he unfortunately also resembles.

" _How many?"_ The boy practically shouts over the radio. I wearily check my figures.

"The score is eighteen to twelve in favour of the opposition." I inform him with a sigh, "The night is almost over. You cannot close a gap that wide…"

" _What if I knock down the same guy six times? Does that count?"_ My companion interrupts with a whisper of desperation. I sigh again.

"No. You agreed to this. Master Bruce approved it. You are going." I say running a hand down my face.

" _How long do I have? There's got to be a gang on the way home I can tie with?"_

"A tie does not default the arrangement. You have to win by two clear points. And you will not." I tell him in no uncertain terms. I hear him emit a sigh of his own. The video feed pans to Master Bruce. He looks almost amused under the cowl this evening.

" _I have to win by two?"_ He checks. The Master nods.

" _The referee explained the rules before we left. If you were not happy, you should have just tidied your room."_ He explains to the boy who I have no doubt is shooting him a bitter smile.

" _Not done yet, are we?"_ Jason challenges. Master Bruce shakes his head.

" _No. There is still the final two-mile route to negotiate before the patrol is concluded."_

" _So, let's go. I can still whip you."_

The final score is twenty-one to nineteen in favour of the older boy in a playsuit. When arriving back, Jason is quick to plead his case. He speaks of half-points, false counts, undetermined variables, inclement weather, freak slips and most damning of all…cheating by the opposition. He is unfortunately outvoted when a recount is demanded and then speaks of a mass conspiracy when he is refused another 'attempt'. He pouts, not unlike another boy was prone to doing, and then flatly refuses to hold up his side of the arrangement as the losing party. Master Bruce is in no mood.

"You are going grocery shopping with Alfred and that is final. Understand?" He tells him sternly. Jason stares him down for as long as any man would dare to. Then he stares for a great deal longer. The Master raises an eyebrow at his continued defiance. "You are a man of your word, aren't you?" He asks the boy. The youth top lip begrudgingly curls.

"I'm a man of my word. I said I would…so I will." He says with spite that threatens to surface. Master Bruce bravely claps a hand on the back of his charge's neck.

"No difficulties tomorrow then?"

"I said I'd…" He snaps off before containing himself. "No, Bruce: no difficulties." The Master rewards him with a grateful smile.

"You're a good sport, Jason. I imagine you always have been."

"Yeah, I'm all sunshine and fucking roses." He mutters firmly shrugging the friendly hand offered off his neck and moving towards the stairs. I note both Master Bruce and myself are fighting valiantly not to snicker at this. It is oddly charming despite the profanity.

"You'll be dragging him around the aisles tomorrow, old friend. Might I suggest a leash?" I give him a withering glare. This boy has some nerve. Always has.

"I will make the child-rearing jokes in this house, Master Bruce, thank you very much. Do you not believe him to be a man of his word?"

"Is any fourteen-year-old a man of his word, Alfred?"

"Point taken, Sir, but in Master Jason's case, I would argue he has little patience for broken promises. He will be complacent enough. Good night, Master Bruce."

"Goodnight Alfred, and good luck."

Wednesday morning finds me as usual in Quentin's Food Market in downtown Gotham. However, unlike usual, I am constantly plagued by dragging feet and adolescent sighs of frustration. Master Jason has kept his word to accompany me in lieu of punishment for an untidy room and general slovenly behaviour. He is still muttering about the bet being 'fixed' even as we approach the meat aisle and the middle of our shopping list. We attract stares from other patrons. This is not a place people bring their children. Jason's presence is an anomaly to them. They act as if they have never seen a teenager before. Perhaps they have not even seen their own children before, come to think of it. As presumptuous as it sounds, he is also not dressed for this store either.

Most patrons wear tweed, corduroy or, more usually, a morning suit since it is habit for many to send butlers and servants to shop instead of carrying out the task themselves. The boy wears denim. Instead of loafers, Oxfords or Brogues, the boy wears Air Jordans. He has barely bothered to comb his hair. In short, he is not a robot or made of plastic. I believe it frightens some people here. I do find myself smiling when he casts a disdainful look in anyone else's direction. Some of them scuttle away. Some of them flush uncommon colours. Despite my own status as a billionaire's servant and valet, I enjoy their bemusement and uncertainty.

"Would you kindly fetch me some lamb cutlets, Sir?" I ask. The boy rolls his eyes.

"Don't call me 'Sir' when we're grocery shopping, Al. You're asking _me_ to get _you_ something. Sir doesn't work anyway." And his lack of snobbery and refinement is also something patrons here are not used to hearing or dealing with.

"Well, can you grab me half-a-dozen lamb cutlets, Jason?"

"Sure. Big ones, yeah?"

"Oh, absolutely."

He is gone only twenty seconds before hurrying back. His expression is one of bewilderment. "Al, do you always buy lamb from here?"

"Yes."

"And has it always been sixty dollars a pound?"

"It used to be slightly cheaper."

"My old man fed us for a month on less than sixty dollars. Your cutlets are gonna cost something like three-hundred-and-fifty bucks. You know how messed-up that is? A six-month food budget for a family of three amounts to one meal for us?" I can understand his disgust at such extortionate prices. He comes from the humblest of stock.

"Should Master Bruce apologise for his fortune, or should I?" I inquire. It is a salient point, but perhaps a little on the nose judging by his sour features. I pat his shoulder. "Sorry if I seemed insensitive just now. I didn't mean it to sound so…unkind." He shakes his head.

"No, it's cool. It'd be pretty dumb if I didn't realise Bruce eats a little better than back in Bludhaven. I just…didn't know how much more rich-guy food cost."

"Believe it or not, Master Bruce's food budget is substantially lower than everyone else in the same tax-bracket. Some buy steaks costing in excess of seven-hundred dollars on a weekly basis. He only wants the best for you. He likes spoiling you."

"Even though I can't taste the difference between a sixty-dollar cutlet and a twizzler?" Jason checks with palpable scepticism. While it is true the boy has little to no palate to speak of, he is not as uncouth as he believes.

"Even if everything tasted of cardboard to you, he would still buy you the best."

"So why not stretch for the seven-hundred dollar steaks?"

"Such frivolous spending is a status symbol, not an indication of quality or taste. He gets what he knows you require to be at peak efficiency."

The remainder of our trip is far smoother in execution. Revealing the Master spoils him has softened Jason's demeanour and relaxed his attitudes. He fetches various items, makes some passing remark on the price, and then puts it in the trolley without further fuss.

"You are a good helper, young man." I say as we file through the check-out and our items are bagged by an eager-faced shop-assistant. He sees me in here a lot. He knows who my employer is. All the staff here do. That they do not fawn any more than is necessary, a minor godsend.

"Just trying to get out of this rich-ass playground sooner, Al. Sick of being stared at like I'm a fucking zoo animal." Jason says glaring at the shop-assistant as being the prime culprit. He wisely looks away after a few uncomfortable seconds. The boy smiles at this. "How about we swing by a Walmart on the way home? Get some Pop-Tarts? Maybe some Eggos or something too?"

"And, why on earth would we do that?" I ask as we take our own bags back to the car. He is almost having too much fun at present for someone who lost a wager.

"Because I was _such_ a good boy, Al." The boy says with the sort of sarcasm he reserves for special occasions as the bags are fed into the Bentley's boot. I shoot him a withering glare. He grins at me. "It's either snacks or cigarettes. You pick which or I'll just shoplift both." He means it as a joke…I think. He has often related how easy mastering a 'five-finger discount' is in supermarkets, even those equipped with security cameras. I nod in understanding.

"Perhaps we won't go shopping further at all. Perhaps we will just go home."

"You think I can't find my way to a Seven-Eleven with my skill set? Turn your back for a second and I'm gone." The teasing is becoming slightly darker in tone. But it is still just teasing. I offer a sporting smile.

"Promise to do your homework when we arrive at the house and to retire at a sensible hour. If you agree then we have an accord." I say offering my hand to seal this short negotiation. Jason nods before enthusiastically shaking my hand.

"And here I thought the day was going to suck. Know how to play me, huh Al?"

"And you apparently know how to play me in return. Bravo. Shall we?"

The boy again proves to be a man of conviction. Once his Pop-Tarts and Eggos are procured, and once we arrive home, Jason starts work on the assignments I left him to complete by close of play tomorrow morning. He does not even ask for assistance this time. As Master Bruce and I both know, he is very bright. However, he does have a tendency to doubt himself if the work appears too complicated upon first glance. Tantrums are not unheard of. Evidently though, he is improving week by week. I am very impressed with his efforts. I collect Master Bruce at five-thirty and we return to the house at six-fifteen. He asks after the boy during the journey. I tell him nothing but good things. His sardonic smile indicates he knows otherwise.

"How much cursing?" He inquires as we enter the house. I clear my throat.

"Less than at the charity auction, Sir."

"Ah, a definite improvement in public relations then?" He quips whilst transiting through the parlour. "And his studies?"

"He has completed them to an above-acceptable standard. I am satisfied."

"I hope you are. Did he enjoy his Eggo, Alfred?" I stiffen at this. I try to covertly sniff the air for missed evidence and scan the ground for potential crumbs as the boy took it to the living room. There are no signs in either instance. As absurd as it may sound, I still forget that the baby whose nappies I changed daily is now billed as the World's Greatest Detective for good reason. He turns to me and smiles. "Did he?"

"Yes. I am trying to wean him off such rubbish though, Sir. It is proving a slow process." I say. He pats me on the shoulder.

"That you made him an Olympian athlete to begin with is a remarkable achievement. One indulgence is not going to change that."

"I believe your torturous training methods also contributed to his development, Master Bruce. Do not lump all the credit for what he is with me." I say as we arrive in the library. The Master nods before turning the hands on the clock face.

"If he wants me or if you need me, I'll be working on something down here."

"Very good, Sir. Dinner will be served at seven-thirty." And with that, he disappears into the darkness. The grandfather clock latches back into place and I am alone. I find myself wondering when it was anything else. Still, I move to the kitchen and begin to finish preparations for the evening. I am joined by the boy some ten minutes later.

Jason has been sequestered in the gymnasium for what seems like hours, but is more likely ninety minutes. As usual, he is drenched in sweat from head to foot. Even his trainers are dark with perspiration, something very rare in this household. It means maximum effort and it means exhaustion. It means him lying prone on the floor, unable to move for anywhere from five minutes to twenty-five. I also detect the faint aroma of urine underneath pungent adolescent sweat. I audibly sigh. Again, he takes a simple training session to extremes: Master Bruce is not the only one adept at creating torturous workout regimes. He does not speak in opening the fridge and grabbing the chilled pitcher.

He goes to drink directly from the pitcher but thinks better of the practice. He shakily takes a glass and pours the juice into it. Some spills on the sideboard. It then runs on the floor tiles. I hear him curse under his breath before reaching for the kitchen towels. I stop him by clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"I will attend to this. You need to put those clothes into the machine and go shower. How much mess is there in the gymnasium?" I ask firmly. He sighs in obvious embarrassment.

"Like…this size of puddle?" He manages to articulate after a long pause, his hands roughly eighteen-inches apart. He stares at the floor like a scolded dog. "I'm really sorry, Al. I…didn't mean to…" I slacken my grip and pat his shoulder in reassurance. "And I was going to clean it up myself if…"

"No, no. It's preferable to actual defecation. We don't want a repeat of last summer, do we?" I say. That particular nasty incident was…my God, the smell in summer heat…it took weeks to air out the building. Yes, training so hard you lose bladder control is relatively tame by comparison. Jason shakes his head.

"No. You're not…you're not going to tell Bruce, are you?"

"He said three strikes, didn't he? And this would be…number four?" This is the second instance I will have covered his 'dedication' from the Master in the last four months. I doubt Master Bruce is ignorant of his third strike, not after all this time. And, I know he will learn of this 'accident' in due course as well. Meanwhile, Jason is making familiar promises.

"I promise I'll ease off. Okay? I promise I'll cut back. I'm not…stupid, Al. I know this isn't good." He is a man of his word. He will hit the brake pedal, for a time. Sometimes it persists for months. But he is still only fourteen. He will make more mistakes in future. I pat his shoulder again.

"I promise that he will not hear about this from me. Now, clothes off and into the shower."

The clothes are being washed, the 'puddle' has been scrubbed and washed away and dinner is ready to be served an hour later. Jason's earlier vulnerability has been expunged from his face as he sits down at the table. The Master of the house seems unconcerned as he sits opposite his charge. I serve the starter, tomato soup, and retire back to the kitchen. I catch snatches of light conversation as the lamb cutlets and vegetables are plated. It seems amicable enough. The rest of dinner passes without incident. When the meal is concluded and Master Bruce has left the table, the boy assists me with the washing-up.

"Thanks for covering for me, Al." Jason says drying up another clutch of pots and pans. I incline my head.

"Not a chore for a boy like you, Sir."

"I know it sounds bad coming from a kid, but I actually had a good time with you this morning. Shopping almost makes me feel normal."

"A sorry state of affairs I'm sure. You will join a league of some description in the near-future. I shall make sure he fills in the necessary paperwork." I assure him whilst scrubbing down the final piece of crockery and placing it on the draining board.

"Yeah? Well, just make sure he gets his ass in gear before try-outs start next month? Don't want to miss my big chance, huh?" He replies with a smirk that speaks of low expectations where sporting acumen is concerned. I frown.

"Am to infer from that remark that you were not athletically endowed as a young child?" He scoffs derisively.

"I pretty much sucked at everything but track and even then, I was only an average runner. How good would you say I am now?" He asks drying the crockery whilst glancing in my direction as I dry my hands.

"Ninety-nine percent of people would fail what you have passed to earn your mantle. Even that one percent capable of replicating what you have done are not aware they could do so. You'll probably be nothing short of amazing when you finally join a team. Invaluable and indispensable at the same time." I tell him with absolute honesty. The boy grins sheepishly as he puts the plates into the top cupboard.

"Always be my biggest fan, Al. Promise me that." He says closing the cupboard and turning towards me. I smile at him.

"You have my word." Jason puts down his tea-towel and considers.

"You think this is one of those moments?" He asks, "You know, the ones they show on hallmark movies and daytime weepies? Cue the emotional music and all that shit?"

"Since neither of us are dying of terminal cancer, I would imagine not." I offer. The boy nods in agreement.

"Yeah. Could really use one of us having cancer to up the ante."

"That is a grossly offensive thing to say, young man. Perhaps you should just go away now." I say only half-joking. Jason scratches the back of his head.

"Yeah, sure. After this." He finally stops floating the idea and just hugs me around the waist in the most adorable aspect of his character I have thus far discovered. I reciprocate his affections wholeheartedly.

"No more pissing yourself in the gym, yes?" I say to make sure he understands what this is all really about. He snorts.

"No more pissing in the gym."

"Good boy." I say clapping him on the shoulders before letting him go. "Enjoy your evening, lad. If you need anything, just give me a shout. Sensible hours if at all possible please." He rolls his eyes and nods whilst walking away.

"Okay. Later, Al."


	9. Chapter 9

**A** **uthor's Note: Another instalment, following another week or two on from the previous chapter. Bruce and Jason discuss the finer points of his performance on the hockey field with typical fireworks.**

 **Bruce's POV and further Father-Son bonding.**

 **Please say if you want more.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Brick 9**

"Do you see what you did wrong?" I ask the boy who looks at me in incredulity.

"What _I_ did wrong?" He responds before standing up and sticking his finger on the screen. "This little asshole tried to fucking trip me right here! He was lucky I only side-swiped him into the barrier. If I'd have gone all in..."

"Let's not imagine what damage you could have done to his body in the heat of battle. A broken collarbone is enough. Why were you in such a position in the first place? What weren't you doing?" I say only for Jason to roll his eyes at me and sigh.

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me, if you're such a fucking hockey expert now?" He is being petulant, an attitude that is best exemplified when he folds his arms and allows his attention to wander to another part of the cave. I continue with my analysis regardless.

"You moved too soon and too far. He almost tripped you because you were off-balance and moving the wrong way. If you were not as flexible and agile as you are, the chances are he would have scored."

"So why did they send me off for the rest of the match?"

"Because you deliberately broke that boy's collarbone. Even if no-one at the match knew that, you and I know it was not an accident. Jason, this isn't the streets. And these people are not combatants. They are children. They break easily. You are stronger and more powerful than boys your age, far more powerful. You need to adjust, scale yourself accordingly so that collisions like that leave a bruise, not a break." He whips his head over from the wall he was staring at and glares at me.

"You made me this way. Before I met you, I never hurt anybody seriously. This is all your fault." It used to be that such a defamatory statement would anger me. His petulance at not admitting and owning his own mistakes, at blaming me for his poor decision-making, when I have done nothing but try to impart objectivity and tactical planning into his head, used to make me shout. And then this conversation would devolve into a shouting match between us. Not anymore.

"I am willing to take a portion of the blame for your actions, if you are equally willing to admit your anger hurts you outside patrols as much as it helps you stay alive on them." I say calmly. The boy's face softens. He unfolds his arms and sighs.

"Fine." He sits back down in the chair beside mine and slouches back. "What else did I fuck up on?"

"Nothing."

"You serious?"

"Yes. That incident aside, your performance for the team was excellent. Your positioning was good throughout, your tackles and spatial awareness of opposing players showed sound tactical nous and a good understanding of your team's needs and offensive plays. At least four of your passes were perfectly measured and instrumental in allowing your team to gain and maintain its lead." I do not give false praise, just as I do not soften criticism. Although Alfred was the one to attend the match and record the footage we are currently appraising, Jason's talent as a sportsman and potential as a team player is undeniable. The boy grins at me.

"What part was your favourite?"

I rewind the video to just prior to the second period. "This is my favourite moment of your performance." We watch as Jason first wrestles the puck away from the opposition's centre as they are within a hairsbreadth of scoring. The youth then chips the puck from one side of the rink to the other, where his own team's centre uses his first touch to score a counter goal. This sequence allows Jason's team to take the lead in the match for the first time. It is a lead they will hold until the final buzzer, despite the boy's rash actions and dismissal. Jason nods in agreement.

"Yeah, that my favourite too. Just a sick pass."

"It was impressive and innovative at the same time. However, just because we can construct a strong highlights package of your actions, it does not excuse what you did to that boy. We are fortunate his parents are not going to sue. When you return to training after your suspension, I want you to apologise to your team and coaches for what you did. In the meantime, you can draft a letter of apology to the boy you crippled. I believe his name is Daniel Madigan."

"I'm not good with words."

"Alfred tells me your English essays prove otherwise. According to him, you write very well. It does not have to be long. One side of A4 will suffice." I decide this is the correct moment to fold my arms and signal there is no room for debate. Jason takes the hint quickly and knows this is a light punishment in the circumstances. He nods.

"Okay. I can do that when we get back, right?" He checks getting to his feet and adjusting his cape. I pull on my cowl and join him in standing.

"I believe tonight's patrol may be something of a grind. Do it first thing tomorrow, after breakfast. We can send it shortly after." I respond walking towards the vehicle park with my partner in tow.

I hate being proven correct. We left the house shortly after nine. It is now almost four in the morning. Normally the process of gathering information on a new drug supply chain takes interrogation of only three or four low-level individuals in that chain, either street-level distributors or the users of the narcotics themselves. What we have encountered is a series of middlemen, and even they only represent the first few rungs of a very tall and convoluted ladder. Our mission has of course been waylaid by the usual contingent of would be rapists, car thieves and protection rackets that operate in the Narrows and surrounding areas, Burnley in particular. Even so, the main goal of tonight's activities – uncovering a vital link in the supply chain – has not been met. It leaves us both despondent.

"This hasn't been a great night, big guy." Robin says to sum up my own sentiments quite aptly. We are currently sat on the roof of the Ace Chemicals building, looking towards the Bowery and Park Row. Despite making the effort of looking through our infrared binoculars, I doubt we will find another dealer to interrogate now. It is too late in the night or too early in the day depending on your viewpoint. We have spoken to, and sometimes threatened, twenty-six individuals. Ten of them were dealers operating in parks, on street corners and late-night convenience stores. These interrogations led us to six middlemen responsible for disseminating product to those dealers. This, in turn, led us to four other middlemen who were responsible for disseminating the product from themselves to the other middlemen. In other words, a dead-end. Desperation led us to question six known addicts and habitual users of these supply chains. Aside from incoherent ramblings and descriptions so vague one could draw a shadow and be accurate, we again hit a wall. I let my binoculars drop and sigh.

"We're done for this evening. Let's go home."

When we get back to the cave, Jason is keen to help me input the small amount of new information we have into the database. I am diplomatic in telling him to go to bed. He pats me on the back, cautions me not to stay up too long and then departs amicably. Evidently my new approach to parenting him is still proving effective, even several months after the brick. I watch him leave via the stairs in what I would now describe as my usual mute appreciation of his presence. I then turn my attentions to the computer and an hour of monotony and dry theorising.

I awake later in the morning, wondering if the fact Gotham's party season concluding last week has lessened demand and made finding decent intelligence harder. I begrudgingly get onto my elbows and look over at my alarm clock: 11:51 a.m. Close to...seven hours? That is impressive. I normally only manage five hours unbroken rest at any instance. I run a hand down my face and sit up. It is then I am aware of sharing my bed with a sleeping youth. The sight of Jason in my bed startles me. I do not believe I have ever seen him show any interest in my room whatsoever. Unlike Dick, Jason does not share his nightmares with others. He does not like spending time on weekends watching films in my room or imposing upon me late at night. If I wish to socialise with him at all, I must go to him because I know he will never return the gesture. Or at least, I thought I knew that to be true.

I have to check, simply because I cannot imagine he would treat my bed as if it were his own...

He's naked. Under the sheets he is naked, as he always is in his own bed. I tug on my own pyjamas to assure myself I am dressed and not encouraging him to forgo sleepwear. Amazingly, he is also sleeping exactly as he would if in his own bed too – spread-eagled on his stomach with his face mashed into the pillow. I know Dick once made a similar spectacle of himself when under the influence of heavy medication. Jason is not taking anything though. A subtle check of his breath proves it is not drink-fuelled. I simply cannot imagine a scenario where he would come to me for comfort. Not one. Everything he fears is kept under lock and key in his mind. Every semblance of weakness is strangled by his willpower, with only a few exceptions in recent weeks.

When I glance at the clock again, I find I spent almost twenty minutes musing on his presence. I have to smile at my own suspicions. Is his being here really a worrying sign? Perhaps he just wanted some company. His nudity is not really a concern. It is a well-worn staple of his sleeping routine, one shared by many people the world over. I just wonder whether this is going to become a trend. Regardless, it is lunchtime and I am hungry. I brush a hand over the back of his head and then go downstairs.

"I'm afraid he has yet to present me with a letter, Master Bruce." Alfred says in lieu of a more traditional greeting as he serves me brunch at the table. I dismiss it with a hand.

"I doubt Daniel Madigan or his parents are in the mood for such a thing today. The incident did only occur yesterday after all. Perhaps another day will help soften the blow."

"Yes, perhaps it will. It was an audible snap, Sir. I don't think the video does it justice." The old man adds placing down a tall glass of fresh orange juice. "For your blood sugar, Master Bruce. It must be quite low after your night." I incline my head in gratitude. "Will he be joining us at some point this afternoon?" He asks indicating the surplus of food he has plated up. Clearly this meal is meant for two people with absurd energy requirements. I nod.

"He needs as much sleep as possible. He conducted himself well on the streets last night. Much better than I assumed he would, given the hockey fiasco."

"I daresay your parenting style is actually a good thing, Master Bruce. And they say you cannot teach an old dog, new tr-"

"That's quite enough jibes at my past failings, Alfred. You know he's asleep in my bed at the moment?" Alfred frowns in incredulity at this statement. It is clear he does not believe me.

"That boy would sleep with a tiger before he would your company."

"You may check for yourself."

"Then if you would excuse me, Sir? That is the wildest claim I have heard from you in many years."

"Certainly, old friend."

I have just finished my second bowl of porridge oats and whey protein when Alfred returns. He takes the chair next to me, looking astonished.

"But...how? How is that even..."

"I don't know myself. I woke up, and he was just there. He must've come in sometime after I retired to bed." The old man's face says he does not accept this narrative as logical, a sentiment I share on some level. It is not Jason-like.

"Do you think it's a good sign?" He asks. I nod my head.

"I am hoping so." I frown at our respective roles in this conversation. They are reversed. "Why are you asking me? Shouldn't you be the one giving your opinion on the matter?"

"He has grown closer to you in the last two months than he has me. In fact, he seems closer to you than I have ever seen him before. So, I should do the asking, and you should give the answers." Alfred shrugs his shoulders, flaps a hand and gets up. "Make sure he gives me something to send tomorrow, Sir. I gave the Madigans my word. Whether they care for his apology or not, I am a man of integrity."

"Yes, Alfred."

I return to my bedroom having showered, shaved and changed into a sweater and some slacks. I carry a pad of lined paper and a selection of pens in my hands as I approach the bed. Despite having gone quarter-past one in the afternoon, the boy is still fast asleep. Instead of waking him as I usually would – standing over him and calling his name until he stirs into life – I opt to lie on the bed next to him and run a hand through his hair until a similar reaction occurs. It takes only a minute or so for the youth to bat my hand away.

"Quit it." He mutters whilst drunkenly flipping his body over so we are face-to-face. He blinks myopically. "Yeah? What do you want?" I show him the pad and pens.

"You have a letter to write. Remember?" Jason stares at my offering in half-hearted protest before sitting up and taking the articles without complaint. There is no sign of embarrassment or shame on his part as he stretches his arms.

"One side of A4, right?"

"Make it good though. The important part is that it is sincere. Understand?" He gives me a thumbs-up with his left hand as his right makes a start on the paper. I wait to see if he is going to give any further reaction to be being caught sleeping in my bed. He seems wholly unconcerned by his surroundings or my proximity. "You don't mind if I stay and read something, do you?" I check reaching for my current book on the bedside table. Jason shrugs without looking up from his work.

"It's your room. Do what you want."

I sit and read some of Voltaire's stories for almost thirty minutes, whilst occasionally stealing glances at the boy's progress. There are very few crossed-out words or revisions in the text, which almost stretches the full-length of the page already. I choose not to read it until it is finished. Jason hands it to me ten minutes later. He folds his arms and waits as I appraise the content. There are no spelling or grammatical mistakes. Good. Some of his word choice is distracting, but there is no cursing or finger-pointing to contend with. Overall, I like it. I nod my head.

"That is an excellent first draft." I say handing it back to him. "Just think about restructuring the third paragraph and the sentence that begins ' _even though you brought this on yourself_ '. Otherwise, it is fine to send." He balls a hand into a fist and uses it to rub his left eye.

"Yeah, I'm still a little groggy I guess. Has Al stuck on a spread?"

"There is plenty of brunch left if you want it."

"Great. I'm starving." He is about to throw back the covers and simply walk out of here naked before I take hold of his wrist. He looks at me in confusion. "What? I do something wrong?"

"No. I was just wondering why you made the decision to sleep in this bed instead of your own. Is there anything you want to talk about? Anything...bothering you?" I ask releasing my grip to ensure he does not feel threatened. He shrugs.

"I don't want to bore you with more homeless-slash-broken home stuff. It's nothing that's happened recently. It's all...shitty past junk. I'd like it if we didn't make a big deal out of this. I got into your bed because it helped make me feel better. That's it. You're cool with that, right?" It sounds terrible, but I am relieved it is a pre-existing issue and not something new. He does not need anything new.

"But you're alright? You don't need us to do anything for you?" I check, venturing to comb through his hair. He smirks at me.

"Just one thing."

"What is it?"

"Let me go eat. I'm really, really hungry."

"I should get you some shorts first."

"Already taken care of."

He flings back the covers to reveal his usual grey cotton shorts, the ones that extend just below his knees. "I brought them with me. I figured you'd get all self-conscious if I just wandered in naked, same deal if I waltzed out in my birthday suit too. They're to spare your blushes though, not mine."

"Thank you for your...consideration, Jason. When did you put them on?"

"While you were reading through the letter. It takes like five seconds. Anyway, can I go now?"

"Of course. Enjoy your brunch."

"Aren't you coming too?"

"I already ate a short while ago."

"So? It's Sunday. Come on, keep me company. I'd like it." He shoots his lopsided grin, the one I find far too endearing and heartfelt a gesture to ignore. He is in a good mood this afternoon, something that was still unclear until he woke up. Evidently, I have successfully managed another potentially disastrous situation with him. I incline my head.

"If you insist."

At the table, Jason's pleasure at being wanted by his team, despite the ugliness that marred his debut match at the close, is palpable. He wants to talk to me about the training drills again, even though he has done so before. I let him. He wants Alfred to hear about them too and pulls him into his audience accordingly. We both like it when he engages us in unison. It is a rare thing for both of us to be wanted simultaneously, even when the boy is in a good mood. After eating, Jason is eager to spar with me for ten rounds in the gymnasium. It is hardly surprising: whenever he is in this kind of mood, he always wants to spar. We manage to convince him to wait an hour to let his food settle first. As soon as the hour elapses, I am dragged into the ring and some eight-ounce gloves to spar with a fourteen-year-old who hits like a man twice his size.

For the last month, Jason has been trying not to simply brawl with me. He wants to box and do so on the outside. My reach advantage, not to mention my height, make this style unsuitable for him. He is better on the inside. Still, he is determined to make a success out of this switch. The first three rounds are testing for both of us. Despite his penchant for brutality, Jason is very hard to hit when he chooses to defend. He is somehow strong and big without sacrificing his speed or reflexes. Whilst I struggle to make clean contact, Jason is hitting consistently short. His range is not quite there through three rounds, on par with my accuracy.

The next three rounds are better. For me. I land big and often. In closing the distance between us to stop his punches dropping short, my superior reach makes him easier to score upon. But only his body. His neck movement is still sublime. Towards the end of the sixth round, he lets off a flurry of blows to my body that almost wind me with their ferocity. He expects to finish strong. So do I.

It all happens in the eighth round. Jason is now back to fully working on the inside, hooking to my sides repeatedly. I create space by pushing him away, but he proves tenacious. I land a big right cross to his face that stuns him off and then try to follow up with another three or four quick blows. He parries them away, delivers a hard body shot to my left side and then tries to finish me off quickly instead. This fails when the buzzer sounds. As I am walking back to my corner, he prods me in the back. I ignore it only for him to prod me again. Twice. When I turn, he is hurrying back to his corner, laughing.

The ninth round is subdued after the last with very few meaningful shots landed. Until the buzzer sounds and he jabs me in the stomach three times. It is not hard. I retaliate by putting him in a headlock before he slips out, sweeps my leg and attempts to put me into a wrestling submission hold known as the sharpshooter. He cannot turn me however, and I retort by putting him into a figure-four leglock. Since all this is very difficult to accomplish wearing gloves and protective headgear, we discard them and begin wrestling in earnest on the mat. He laughs all the way through this game of one-upmanship.

We finally stop when the buzzer sounds three times, signalling the end of ten rounds. He is currently on top of me as I lay flat on my back with his knees pinning both my arms to the mat. Both of us are sweating profusely, but Jason seems happy with the utter breakdown of pugilistic decorum between us. He smiles at me.

"Thanks for letting win, big guy. It was real gracious of you." I incline my head.

"I like seeing you happy."

"Yeah, me too. You're great when you're fun."

"Thank you. Now, do you mind?" The boy gets to his feet, relieving the pressure on my biceps. I stand up and find me looking at me sheepishly.

"I'm sorry I broke that Danny kid's collarbone. I was a dumbass to do it. I promise I won't do it again." He says, somewhat redundantly from my perspective. I nod.

"I know. It was in your letter. Put in far better terms as I recall."

"Yeah, but that was for public relations. This apology is for you. Just you."

"What's the difference?"

"I actually care what you think. You forgive me for being...me?" He still has some doubts we are compatible for co-existing. It is matter of pride that my opinion can make this wild boy anxious or ecstatic depending on circumstance. Of course, the less anxious he is, the more glowing my praise tends to be. I clap him on the back of his neck.

"Of course. You would never fit in this family if you were perfect. We'd chase you out in an instant." I tell him with a smile he returns.

"I didn't freak you out too much this morning, did I? Turning up in your bed like that?"

"I'm glad you feel safe in my company, irrespective of whether I am awake or not. If you are going to do it again though, can you please wear... _something_ at least?"

"I'm not going to do it again. That was...girly. No matter how many times Golden boy might've done it, I don't think Robins should get into bed with bats. But..." He shrugs my hand off his neck, "I did have some ideas about all the supply bunk we were chasing last night. Can we head down to the cave so I can show you what I mean?" He's shut the door on it now. Perhaps another time. I collect my thoughts.

"Is it a suspect?"

"Maybe two."

"Hnn. Alright, go shower and then meet me below stairs. Say fifteen minutes?"

"I'm there, Boss-man."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Unless asked for, this will be the final chapter of Brick. It is told from Jason's POV and documents his feelings towards a solo patrol of the city with Bruce in his ear.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Brick 10**

 **Jason**

Tonight, I'm patrolling solo. It's not a big deal – I've done it a dozen times before when Bruce is out of town on business – but this is the first time he's running cave duties. Al's gone off to the motherland for his usual two weeks' vacation. Normally, if Al's away and Bruce is here, the big guy runs the show on the streets and I do the support piece back in the cave. He figures he's less likely to get a catastrophic injury than me, which is kind of insulting, but I get. I think we both feel nervous without Al's medical skills on tap. So, why he's got me running the streets while he sits on his ass in the command chair watching, is something I don't really get. Since I've got him in my ear all night, I tell him as much after dumping my bike in a nearby alleyway.

"So, why's the fourteen-year-old doing the wet work and the seasoned pro doing the armchair warrior stuff?" I ask scaling the Ace Chemical building with the ease of a guy who's climbed it a thousand times already. "Do you want a front row seat to see me fuck up your city or...?"

 _"You will do nothing of the sort. Alfred has often expressed how...extraordinary it is to watch you work on camera. This seems like a perfect opportunity to witness the spectacle for myself. Unless, you think yourself ill-equipped to handle the workload alone?"_ He says over the comm link. I smirk and roll my eyes.

"Keep your ass in that chair, big guy. I got this. You just watch, huh?" I tell him as I take a quick look around the city from the rooftop. I hear him chuckle softly in my left ear.

 _"I fully intend to."_

The night starts out exactly as I want it to, with a decent warm-up. I stop a gang of four teen gangbangers from harassing a mother and her kids without breaking any bones. The big man says nothing at all. He doesn't tell me my technique was sloppy, or my footwork was awkward, or that my punches were telegraphed. I mean, none of that stuff applied just now, but he usually tears me a new one every time things get hot and heavy on the streets. Sometimes I earn the ball-breaking because sometimes I look for shortcuts in battle that he doesn't like. But tonight, I feel good and his lack of running commentary makes me feel even better.

The warm-up gives way to a better test of my abilities. There's a shoot-out in the Narrows between six members of the GCPD and at least twelve members of the Gotham Kings. Long story short, the GCPD are losing because they've been pinned down and cornered into a dead-end alley. The Kings are beginning to close in like sharks that smell blood in the water. It's all very desperate-looking stuff. The GCPD don't need more names for their memorial wall and the scum don't need a confidence boost. So, I first even the odds then destroy them in my favour. If there was ever a time Bruce would verbally rip me apart, it would be when I use house bricks to knock five of the Kings unconscious whilst circling above them on my grapnel line. But no reprimand comes over the airwaves. Nothing comes over the link at all.

I take that as encouragement and proceed to drop down from the sky and fight three of the Kings' remaining shooters hand-to-hand, making sure I'm way too close and in-their-face for them to use their pistols. They pop off a few shots in my general direction, but the accuracy is not there. If it was, they would have killed all six of the cops by now. Instead, they've only grazed one of them, and even that was luck instead of skill. As I deliver a boot to the face of the tenth King I've taken down in as many minutes, I'm pretty confident I'm all skill. That leaves two left that I can see. They both have guns trained on my head. I smile at them and what must be a ten-foot gap between us. No way are they hitting me from there, not with those lazy-ass stances. The kick will knock them both over.

"You can either surrender or I can make you surrender to law enforcement. My way involves losing your front teeth and the use of one or more of your limbs. If you run, I'll get mean and just break both legs. What's it going to be boys? Peace or war?" I shout to them over the wail of approaching sirens. Both guys, kids only a few years older than me, slowly put their weapons on the ground before sinking to their knees, hands atop their heads. I nod. "Smart move."

Three squad cars show up three minutes later and give the six officers more than enough back-up to arrest and cart away the dregs. I'm about to leave when one of the gang members I didn't render unconscious calls me over. He's a good-looking kid, around seventeen, with some pretty nice hair and an air of confidence around himself that reminds me of myself. But the handcuffs suit him. They'd never suit me. I smile at him.

"Listen dude, I'm flattered, but I'm really not into guys." I say, even though I know he isn't interested in me like that either. He rolls his eyes and smirks.

"You're funnier than the last time we ran into each other."

"I think I'd remember a guy with your jawline, dude. Looks like it could cut glass."

"You remember that brick I clocked you with?" He says to jar a really vague memory from a few months back.

I laugh out-loud. "You? You're brick guy? My boss said I beat the living shit out of you."

"You did. I was laid up for six weeks afterwards. What about you?"

"Two weeks. Took me that long to get the blood out of my gloves." I quip before giving him a quick peek of my still, mostly, pristine gloves. "Look sweet as hell though, huh?"

"Man, if you didn't have the skills to back up that mouth of yours, you'd get eaten alive."

"Yeah, well, you obviously didn't learn anything from last time otherwise you wouldn't be trying to get yourself framed up as a cop killer. Are you just dumb or...?"

"Turns out it's a lot harder to leave a gang than to join it. You're lucky you're only in a gang of two. When it gets beyond a thousand, things get a little...complicated."

"What do you want from me, dude? You want me to put in a good word or just listen to your life story like I care?" I say. He shrugs.

"I've only spoken to you for like a minute and I already know you're not the sort of guy to do either of those things. I just wanted to say that I'm glad you talked me out of trying to shoot you. You're one of the good guys."

"Yeah, well, you're still going downtown for a leisurely game of 'drop the soap' in the showers at Gotham County. If you do your time and maybe try to turn over a new leaf, then we'll talk shop. Until then, I'm out." I leave him to his fate and don't feel the slightest bit sorry for him or his crappy life. Make your bed and lie in it, asshole. Once I'm back on the rooftops, I make contact with my one spectator. "Are you going to say anything about what you're seeing tonight? I know for a fact you're not cool with half the stuff I've done already."

 _"I thought the debrief could wait until you returned. I do not want my remarks to adversely affect your performance."_

"I don't want to wait. What did I do wrong, big guy? Tell me, please?"

 _"House bricks, Robin? Really?"_ He says in a way I want to argue with but can't because he's right. I suck my teeth and nod.

"Yeah, I should've used projectiles...or gas...or smoke. Sorry, big guy."

 _"May I ask why you used bricks to begin with? Is it due to the fact it was that gang that caused your head-injury all those months ago?"_

"Yeah. Petty, huh? Kind of 'tit-for-tat' bullshit."

 _"You're better than that. Don't stoop to their level. It is beneath you. Okay?"_

"Yeah, I hear you. Anything else?"

 _"The use of prison rape as a quip. There is no need to say such a thing. You, of all people, know the psychological harm such a violation can cause another human being. Again, I think it is beneath you."_

I smirk. "Not _behind_ me?"

 _"Please Jason, don't joke. It... upsets me to think of you in such a situation."_ I hear the genuine concern in his voice and know my past is starting to bum him out in a big way, now we're clicking better as people. So I dial it back.

"Okay, Boss-man. No more, I promise. Where do you want me to go next?"

 _"Police scanners indicate a raid is being prepared on a brothel that features victims of human trafficking. It is in the Bowery, east of Markham Street. Kindly lend them a hand with the traffickers."_

"I'm on it."

The raid runs like clockwork and the results are as sweet as a nut. Eighteen rescued women, twelve arrested traffickers, no runners, no casualties and no mistakes whatsoever. I didn't even move from the damn rooftop the boys in blue were so efficient and on their game. _"Are you impressed?"_ Bruce asks over the comm link. I smile and nod.

"They are drilled. That was so smooth it almost gave me a hardon."

 _"I don't need to know. There are incoming reports of a large-scale fight breaking out in Park Row. Would you please turn your attentions westward now?"_

"I'm already moving, big man."

This time, I'm a lot more heavily involved in the action, which I like. I count forty guys whaling on each other like there's no tomorrow and quickly jump into the mosh pit of human punchbags for some technique practice. I start low, sweeping legs behind the knee and mid-calf. I stomp at least ten groins in my follow-up to the sweep once they're eagle-spread on the ground. That takes them so far out of commission, they become trip-hazards instead of actual threats. Then I move past the belt-line for fast-punch combinations. I go for two left straights and a right hook on the first guy and then add in an initial feint before stringing alternative body punches onto the end of the combo with the next five guys. The last body punch always drops them hard enough that they struggle to breathe. After that, I graduate to the fun stuff: soft tissue.

Throat, eyes and, to a lesser extent, nose. I would go for the solar plexus but like to work in neat sections when I'm drilling techniques like these. The next batch of practice dummies get their throats punched and their eyes gouged before I deliver the coup de grace by breaking their noses in at least two places. I make sure I don't apply too much force to the punch on their throats or get too happy with the eye-gouging. Incapacitate, not maim. I got the memo like a thousand times. I'm cool with mercy, even if they don't deserve it. Fifteen minutes, and roughly one-hundred-and-twenty-five strikes later, I'm the last man standing. The fight is over. Nobody wins. No need to call the cops out for this one. Everybody learnt a lesson about fisticuffs in public – don't fucking do it. Most of them will get up and hobble away in another five or ten minutes. The ones who don't will get hauled away by their friends in this little turf spat. But no-one's crossing the boundary lines for the rest of the night.

"I feel good, big guy. Where next?"

 _"Home. It's gone one."_

"No way! Last time I checked it was barely after eleven!"

 _"You have been in almost continuous motion for close to six hours. It is time to call it a night. From what I can see, Commissioner Gordon and his police force have the city under firm control. You are now surplus to requirement, not because you are not useful, but because you have been useful enough tonight. Understand?"_

My hands are desperate to ball themselves back into fists and continue the fight. My whole body is screaming out for a bigger challenge, a tougher ask. But it's been that way since I first graduated to the mantle. I've been bred for war and programmed to love combat. He didn't mean to make me this way. It just happened. My anger made it happen. Sometimes It's hard to switch off the instincts. It's why he's struggled to control me in the past, and why I've struggled to control myself. But now, everything's cool. Everything is balanced – inside. My hands go limp. I nod my head.

"I understand. I'll be home in twenty."

I get back to the cave quickly enough to surprise him. When I move up from the vehicle park to where he's stood in the command centre, I see it. He's smiling. Not like normal people. Normal people make sure you know they're happy. They smile big. Bruce smiles small. Like, almost not smiling at all. It means he's really stoked with you. It means I did a good job tonight. It makes me grin back.

"Alfred was right. That was...a pleasure." He informs me as I take off my mask to look him in the eye. "The incidents we discussed aside, you were everything I expected you to be out there. I hope you are proud of yourself."

"Honestly, that's no different than I throw down every night. I wasn't aiming to impress you or anything, just get the job done."

"I know. That is probably what impresses me most, that your default setting is, for most part, very reassuring to me. You are safe without being meek and heavy-handed without bordering on sadistic. It was not always that way."

"I know. And, I'm sorry for how I used to be. I get I went too far and got a little too into what I was doing. But I'm good now. I feel great."

"I am very glad to hear it. Please dress over to the medical bay."

It feels weird, having Bruce play Al in this scenario. Even though he wears the same latex gloves as Al to do the prodding, and acts in the same professional manner, it feels weird to have him touch me like this. It might be the fingers. Al's got these long, pianist digits, the kind you think surgeons and doctors need to do those delicate operations. When he touches me, I don't feel threatened. Bruce is another story. He's got thick-ass fingers that literally feel like steel cable when they wrap around a hand or a wrist. Every time he touches me, even like just to squeeze my shoulder, I get terrified he's going to snap something. The word 'powerful' is too weak to describe Bruce, as crazy as that sounds.

Now he's got them clamped down on my left shoulder while asking me to do a few rotations with my arm. He wants to check nothing's torn or tender. I do it gingerly, but not because I'm scared. I do it because it smarts a little. For the first time I'm not scared of him breaking something. I feel okay with him doing this. And that's what's weird to me, how at ease I am. He nods in satisfaction. He repeats it on my other shoulder. A dozen checks later sees me granted a clean bill of health.

"Do you feel I have neglected any area that could yield problems in future?" He asks me, moving to take off his gloves.

"Yeah, I got this niggle between my shoulder blades? Could you maybe see if I've pulled something or not?" I say. He frowns.

"Lean forward slightly and I'll check."

I lean forward at the waist and he snakes his massive arm underneath my armpit and up the centre of my back, feeling for a problem I just made-up. When he adjusts his position to let his other arm join in the search on my back, I lean forward until my cheek is on his shoulder and both my arms are halfway around his back. I hear him smirk when he realises I've duped him into hugging me. He pats my back appreciatively.

"Very clever." He says.

"Thanks." I reply, thanking him for way more than just his last comment. I don't love many people. After losing so many people in my life I can't. But I love Al and... for the last few months at least, I love Bruce too. I get why Dick loves him so much, even after all the shitty things he's done to the guy. He could've handled my concussion differently. He could've treated me the same when I got my marbles back and kept the status quo. But he didn't. He made a real effort to make me feel better about myself. He gave me options I never knew were on the table before. More important than that, he let me catch my breath. This is the first time since I started being Robin that I had time to think and plan ahead of the next kick. I don't feel like a homage to Golden Boy anymore. I just feel like me, and that being myself is enough for him. It's so much more relaxing. Hug the Batman kind of relaxing.

"You're more than welcome." He says, quicker than I thought he would. He pushes me away and I let him. Six seconds. That's enough. He claps me on the shoulder. "Go shower. Then, come upstairs. I've got a... surprise of sorts for you."

When I get upstairs in the library, there isn't a prostitute waiting for me, or even a just Playboy and a a tub of hand cream. Instead, there's just Bruce, with nothing in his hands. I shrug my shoulders.

"Is the surprise there's _no_ surprise?" I check with half-a-sigh. He smirks.

"I would not be so cruel." He walks towards me until we're almost nose to nose. "Hold out your hand please." I do as I'm told and hold out my hand, palm up. Maybe this is where I finally give him a hand job. Thankfully, before I can actually think about what that would look like, he puts an airline ticket and what looks like a museum stub in my hand. I look at them both.

"Glamorous Ambler, Pennsylvania, huh? Do they have coke and hooker parties there too? And I guess this is my stub for free drinks at its most amazing nightspot, 'the _Stoogeum_ '? What the hell's a stooge..." Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. The Stoogeum? The place that holds more than a hundred _thousand_ pieces of Three Stooges memorabilia? _My_ version of comedy Mecca? The place I've wanted to visit since I was nine and broke living in Bludhaven? Holy shit. I can't even...wowee. Jackpot.

"Can I assume that a three-night stay and a private guided tour of the museum is something you would be interested in partaking in?" The big guy says even though we both know I can barely hear him right now. I just keep looking at the tickets.

"You're really taking me? Mr Marx-Brothers-Until-I-Die is really taking me to pay homage to the greatest comedians who ever lived?"

"Don't rub any more salt in the wound than is necessary. This already hurts enough. Are you coming?"

"Maybe a little. I mean, it's not that exciting..."

"I meant to the museum. You knew that."

"This is the most awesome thing you've ever done. Thank you so, so much, Bruce. I really...I really appreciate you doing this for me. I can't wait."

"No hug for this?"

"Hell, no. I gave you a real one down in the cave. One now would feel really cheap by comparison." Even though I sound light, I'm serious about the hugging. I don't even give Al more than one or two a week, and sometimes I regret dishing out the second one. I'm actually starting to think that I hurt Bruce a little, by not showing him much physical affection before the brick. Since I got a little more cosy with him, he seems warmer. More human. But that still doesn't make him normal.

"Fair enough. As indicated on the airline ticket, we leave tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you get some sleep so you can pack adequately in the morning. Goodnight, Jason."

I grab his wrist before he can get more than two steps away. I scoff. "You think I'm done with you?" He knows what this means. Yeah, yeah, grin away, big guy, by all means. Jason Todd wants a story. The fourteen-year-old tough guy wants you to read him some dusty old book by some dead guy, laugh it up. "Can we finish that one about the guy with the aging picture by that Irish fag?"

"It is called 'the Picture of Dorian Gray' and is by Oscar Wilde, one of the most lauded poets and writers of the nineteenth century. His sexuality is wholly irrelevant in this context."

"But I remembered it, and his nationality. I have to get points for that, right?"

"Perhaps a little. Will you indulge me and wear clothes tonight?"

"Nope. I can't...I can't sleep with clothes on." I tell him. This is the first time I've admitted to anyone that wearing clothes to bed is something I really can't do if I want a decent night's shut-eye. I'm not ready to open the closet on the childhood trauma that sparked it but being able to tell someone is good enough for now. The big man nods.

"Very well. Remind me to pack a sleeping mask for the hotel room." He says to turn it into a joke I appreciate. We both smile. It's a good feeling.

Ten minutes later, I'm buck under the sheets and Bruce is sat on top of the sheets with his book. We pick up after Dorian gets back from travelling the highways and byways of human depravity and roll from there. It takes me all of six minutes to decide it's okay for me to cuddle into his side and let his hand run through my hair. This is as close to being absolutely happy as I have ever been. This is the safest I have ever felt with another human being, my folks included. And all because of a fucking brick. What a world. What a fucked-up and beautiful world. I let my eyes close and my mind to drift a little.

"Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognised who it was." The big man says. I wait to hear more but get nothing else. I open my eyes and push away from him.

"That's it? That's the end?" I check. Bruce nods and closes the book.

"That's the end."

"That story sucked. Strike off the reading list. And whatever else he wrote. Don't like him." I say, sticking my arms above my head to stretch out my spine. The big man smirks.

"I expected as much. He is...not to everyone's tastes. Who would you like to hear next?"

"Whoever wrote Frankenstein. I like Frankenstein movies."

"Mary Shelly it is then."

"A chick? A girl wrote Frankenstein? Kudos to her, huh?"

"She was a _woman_ when she wrote it, not a girl. Frankenstein the book is markedly different to Frankenstein the film. You may not find it to your tastes either."

"I'll give it a whirl, just to check. I'm ready to call it a night. Wake me up in the morning? Otherwise we'll miss the flight."

"Certainly." He says hauling his fat ass off my bed and ambling towards the door like some enormous bear. I settle down into the mattress and close my eyes as he hovers by the light switch. There's a click and then his usual farewell. "Goodnight, Jason."

I give up a yawn, and then something much bigger to show him I care. "Goodnight, Dad."


End file.
